


Validation

by ForeverMATT



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Alienation, Angst, Astral Plane, Banter, Bonding, Desertion, Desire for approval, Drama, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Martyrdom, Misunderstood Brutality, Proof of worth, Question of honor, Raphael joins up with Shredder, Redemption, Tragedy, identity crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 01:32:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 55
Words: 155,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3469427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeverMATT/pseuds/ForeverMATT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to TMNT or anything I might reference. Credit and appreciation to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes:  
> My headcanon age order will always be Leo, Don, Raph, then Mike.  
> Unless I specifically target the 2k12 NICK-verse, Raphael will never have green eyes when I write him. Also, let it be known, I write him with a potty mouth.  
> Unless otherwise stated, Shredder is human.
> 
> *Originally posted on FFN

**PROLOGUE**

* * *

Metal hit metal. Katana against sai. Blade for blade. Playing along the rooftops in the dead of night beneath the ethereal glow of the moon, two shelled reptiles traded blows in a manner so swift, so smooth, so precise that it appeared overly rehearsed. Second nature. Like breathing but somehow more vital.

Almost precious.

Those reptiles, turtles, one masked in blue and the other not masked at all; the unmasked one, his usual leather gear and pads, replaced by cold steel counterparts; his traditional wraps exchanged for foreboding spiked gauntlets...

No words were exchanged as the fight erupted into something fluid.

Communication passed through intense unbreakable eye contact and and the hiss of colliding weapons as attacks were delivered, blocked, deflected, countered.

Easy, almost devoid of the malice that should have been.

An almost effortless dance.

As if this was something they did every day.

And maybe at one point in their lives, they _had_ done this every day, but that was so long ago. Back then, their fighting had been little more than practice and play.

Now, the fight held a true purpose.

And, as if in testament to that purpose, the blue-banded turtle blocked another attack and found his voice. "Raph, come home."

"Leonardo-" Raph began, only to be cut off by the other turtle.

"Raph, please," his voice was softer this time, just barely concealing desperation. "You're our brother. You won't come home, and you won't even call me _Leo_." His face scrunched up as if he'd taken a physical blow. "We need you."

Their weapons became lodged, twin katana braced against the tri-blades of sai. Tension was thick and getting thicker. The air grew stale and palpable.

Raphael's tone changed as he pressed his strength more towards the other turtle, forcing him back an inch or two; their blades remained firmly locked, neither wanting to give in and lose the preamble of their self-righteous causes. His voice thick, Raph's words were simple and direct. "Yeah, _Leonardo_? You guys need me? Well, too bad. Because I don't need you."

Of course Leo wanted answers, and within reason, he'd sooner ask than stain his blade with his brother's blood. "Then why did you come here? If you didn't want to see us, then why-"

"I'm outta here. Don't follow me. I've gotta report back ta _Master Shredda_ before he gets all pissy. Tell _Donatello_ and _Michelangelo_ that ya couldn't find me. It's better that way."

The attitude was more than expected, but he use of the brothers' full names sounded almost wrong in that gruff voice; the voice with the lower-eastern accent that left out syllables... Such unnecessarily long words were about as normal as a cat that could bark and fly and piss sideways.

"Don't go, Raph. Let's talk this out."

"I'm done talkin'."

Blue bandana tails catching a breeze and whipping back, Leo opened his mouth to speak again, but his voice caught in his throat as he watched more than felt the other turtle roughly disengage before turning away to leap to the next rooftop. Raph was out of earshot by the time their brief and haphazard talk had fully registered and Leo managed to utter, voice soft with a hint of surprise: " _Master Shredder?_ Raph, what are you getting into? Why won't you just come home?"

Just then, two figures emerged from the shadows to stand beside Leo, one masked in purple and the other masked in orange.

"We'll get him back, Leo. No matter the cost," the purple-clad ninja said, voice determined and mouth drawn into a tight line.

"Thanks, Don," Leo said, slipping an arm around his intelligent brother and pulling him in for brief hug. "You okay, Mikey?" he asked, giving his youngest brother a sidelong glance. He'd have offered this other brother the same sentiments of a hug, but in the past eight months or so, he'd learned not to force the courtesy of consolidation.

Mikey, once affectionate, loud and boisterous and unable to focus, simply appeared thoughtful, eyes wide and fingers twitching in a show of restlessness. Whether or not he heard the question didn't matter because he wouldn't have answered anyway. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and spoke with a firm voice. "Something's off. Raph should have known we were here. We were in the shadows, but he should have smelled or sensed us. And he still won't call us anything except our full names..." His tone was etched with something akin to worry, the very same worry that had been eating at him for an immeasurable amount of time.

Donatello, no longer a stranger to the new behavior of his youngest brother, listened curiously, taking in Michelangelo's words and trying to work his brain to see the point of significance. Michelangelo had, more than a few times, stressed the factor that the brief encounters they had with Raphael had endured with their lost brother calling them my their full names. To Don, this fact had seemed irrelevant, but now that both Mikey and Leo had called it forth, he had to consider its importance. Given the thought, sudden realization struck Don before he voiced it. "The use of full names. Mikey, you noticed it first. Raph isn't using endearments; when addressing us, he's being as formal and distant as possible, but the fact that he's willingly making contact anyways...-" his words trailed off, eyes sightlessly darting back and forth as if racing against his thoughts and trying to keep up with his own understandings as they came to light.

At this point, Mikey's own mind was jarring with more thought processing than any of his brothers thought possible for their youngest brother. "Something is off." he restated. "Raph showed up _wanting_ to see us -wanting _us_ to see _him_ , but then he just left. He wants us to follow him." Something cognizant sparked behind his surprisingly perceptive blue eyes, something hopeful. He turned to fully face the other two turtles and repeated: "He wants us to follow him. We need to go, _now_." He didn't wait for approval or any word from Leo. His mind was made up and his body acted accordingly. He raced to the edge of the roof and jumped, tucked into a flip and landed solidly on the next rooftop before continuing his sprint. His grace went unmatched.

Leo and Don were in hot pursuit, keeping pace with each other while refusing to let the youngest out of sight.

"I never thought I'd say this, but do you think Mikey's onto something?" Don asked, trying not to seem too hopeful and risk the pending consequences.

Leo took in the words with much consideration; he was quiet for several breaths and twice as many leaps before he finally answered. "Maybe. What concerns me is... Raph addressed Shredder as 'Master.' This can't be good. We need to find him and get through to him. He'd do the same for us."


	2. Ch1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to TMNT or anything referenced. Credit and appreciation to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes:  
> Ch1 takes place before the Prologue. The prologue set the tone of Raph having been away from his brothers for months; this chapter -and likely the ones that follow- will have a starting point and eventually lead up to Raph's allegiance with the Shredder.

**CH1**

* * *

_[10 Months earlier]_

"Raphael, your form could use some work; you can't rely on brute strength alone. Why don't you practice an extra hour -" it was a trap, those words. Phrased like a question but the tone used was firm, a demand, an order. The owner of that voice, his eyes held the sharpness of a blade as he squared his shoulders in an attempt to appear more authoritative. "You lost to Mikey in a sparring match," the last sentence could be added to the 'insult to injury' category, but there was no injury to be had, unless one could count bitterness.

Bitterness and loathing. Contempt. All those horrible shallow feelings that never stayed beneath the surface for long.

Not missing a beat, the younger of the two rose to the occasion, took the bait, and opted to defend himself- it was only natural. "Mikey's fast, Leo. That's it. He's such a space-headed dimwit, jumpin' around like a stupid... jumpy... thing-" the red-banded turtle's voice dropped the accented lilt and drew into a growl, words coming to a jumbling halt before he collected himself and tried again. "He's fast and stupid. He got lucky. It was a fluke, Fearless. I'm still a better fighter. Stronger, more-"

"Face it, Raph. Michelangelo beat you. Stop cutting down the fact that he did something better than you. Give him his moment and then work harder next time."

"Hold up! Wait, ya say he's _better_ than me? Mikey?! Fuck you, Leo. I ain't gotta take this shit, not from you! Get offa my case before I knock you fer a loop."

Leo narrowed his eyes, his posture perfect and his stance firm and unshakable as he inhaled deeply and puffed up his chest in a show of dominance. Being older and leader, he needed to exert himself to exercise some form of control. "I don't think you could, Raph. I think you let your anger get the better of you, and you don't even try to stop it anymore. You just run head first into the fray, and you swing your fists as if they have all the answers in the world. As if they can solve anything. One of these days, someone is really going to get hurt, and I don't know what's worse: The possibility that you might hurt one of us... or the possibility that you might hurt yourself." Leo drew a breath and waited several heartbeats, letting his prior words sink in before opening his mouth once more. "Raph, you can't-"

"Can't- _WHAT_ , Leo?! What can't I do? I'll tell ya what I _can't_ do! I can't stand ta listen ta dis shit from ya anymore. Ya wanna get on my case and shove your perfectness in my face, then fine! But one of these days, Leo, yer gonna chase me away, and I won't come back. Then who's gonna be stuck in your fuckin' shadow, Splinta Jr?" Raph's whole body tensed, muscles bulging, the little vein at his temples pulsing. He could almost taste his heartbeat, and it didn't taste good. Clenching his fists, just barely reigning his anger enough not to draw his weapons, he turned away to avoid the temptation of tackling the eldest turtle. It was a last minute decision for him to noisily stomp across the lair and head for the exit.

Fresh air would do him good, he hoped.

Leo's first instinct was to go after his brother, but he held off, deciding it might be best to let the red-banded turtle have his space and blow off some steam. Sighing in a bout of resignation, the eldest brother stood back and watched his brother's retreating shell. _'Clear your head, then come home, Raph,'_ he thought, knowing better than to voice this aloud under the strained pretenses.

Just then, a loud whoop resounded, accompanied by the grinding wheels of a skateboard across the cement flooring. The rider of the skateboard finished with a flourishing kick-flip before dropping to his feet with athletic grace and collecting his board in his three-fingered hands. "Hey, _Raphie_ ," Michelangelo called out loudly, a bite of amusement on his grinning face and in his jittery temperament. He paused at seeing Raphael mid-trek towards the exit. "Raph!" He tried again, louder, before his brother could bolt. His sudden presence and loud voice was enough to jar Raphael into a dead halt. Noting that he had his hotheaded brother's attention, Mikey gave his message. "Sensei wanted a word with you after training. I think he's upset about your last outing with Casey. Not sure why." Knowing that the words wouldn't go over well, the orange-banded ninja held up his skateboard in front of his face, pretending to shield himself from an expected attack. "Don't shoot the messenger, bro!"

Dealing with Leonardo had been rough enough on Raphael, and Mikey's obnoxious demeanor wasn't going to aid the situation.

As if on queue, the trigger questionable, Raph finally snapped, eyes turning white with rage and fists shaking in a blind desire to unleash their unbridled fury. He'd almost unconsciously slipped into an offensive battle stance, fingers uncurling to rest at the leather-wrapped hilts of each sai. His breath came in angry gasps, too hard and too fast to satisfy his beckoning lungs as his vision flecked with red and blurred at the edges.

Suddenly, everything stopped.

The world ceased to spin.

Raph's shoulders slumped and his breath became regulated; his heart gradually slowed to something more manageable. Through sheer willpower, he'd managed to cage his aggression for the time being, but if he were the slightest bit angrier, he knew he'd have attacked either brother. But he didn't. Instead, he forced himself to ignore Leo and focus on what his younger brother had said. And in a raspy voice, he found himself repeating: "My last outing with Casey?" His head hurt; his muscles were screaming for him to hit something, but he refrained. A bitter chuckle began with a shaky inhale that was followed by expulsion. Head high and resolve firm, he gave his verbal affront. "Tell Master Splinta that he doesn't have ta worry 'bout my outings with Casey. 'Cause, my last outing with Casey was... my _LAST_ outing with Casey. Ain't gonna do it no more. So, you can all just fuck off and hope I don't do somethin' stupid."

With that, Raph was gone. Exiting the lair and entering the sewers. Climbing up and out the nearest manhole and gulping in heaps of crisp night air once he made it topside.

Darkness as his ally, all he wanted to do was clear his head and get away from his family before he hurt them... again.

His body burned with tension, but his head hurt so much worse. He grit his teeth and slipped into an alley, making his way to a rickety fire escape. The familiar structure beneath his feet, he scaled.

The rooftops were his destination. His own source of elevation where he could almost pretend that, like his brothers, he too was on a pedestal.

Silent, stealthy, ninja-like, he ascended. Once his feet were firmly planted on the roofing he looked around, his bright-eyed gaze sweeping over his surroundings. He took in the sky, stars hidden among the haze of light pollution. He took in the familiar scent of the overrun city. He drew in the general sounds of restlessness, cars and people, all bustling about even in the latest of hours.

The rush of sound and motion was almost a comfort, free of anything that might have stifled the turtle and added to his hostility.

Finally alone, the tension in his mind and body began to slowly ebb away. He drew his sais from his belt and twirled them absently with effortless skill. He wanted to clear his head; his thoughts continued to plague him, though their intensity had muted considerably in the absence of his brothers.

On some level, even he had to admit that his brothers weren't entirely in the wrong. He _did_ rely on strength rather than technique, but that worked for him. Trying and failing to quell the bitterness inside, Raph grumbled "Who said I wanted to be perfect anyways? If I was perfect, what would be the point in tryin'? Far as I'm concerned, lack of perfection is just motivation," he smiled at his own words, proud of his own insight.

For the briefest moment, he wondered if his brother Don or Master Splinter would agree with his logic. It made sense enough, didn't it?

Shrugging it off to the best of his abilities, he dropped that line of thinking and continued to twirl his sais; adjusting his footing, he closed his eyes and began to run through a series of simple kata. Hoping to ease his mind and keep physically active without getting himself in more trouble than he already was.

No, tonight, he'd behave himself. He might not have been the perfect son or student, nor the best brother, but he could try...

His form was nearly perfect in the beginning, rivaling that of his eldest brother, but as the more complex kata came into play, a primal part of his mind became more active and excitable; his movements gradually became sloppy, more reckless, exerting more strength than necessary in his choppy kicks and jabs.

In his mind, he relayed his last sparring match with his orange-clad brother, trying to decide where he went wrong and what he could have done to counter it. No matter how he turned it around in his head, the results were he same.

Annoyed once more, Raph allowed himself to scowl. "A fluke, it had to be a fluke. Mikey's just fast," he reasoned with a sharp nod. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. "Gotta be a way to get past that. I ain't as fast as he is. But I'm stronger. One hit. I get one hit on him and I get the upper hand." He took a deep breath and expelled it with fervor, once again replaying the match in his head.

Then, Michelangelo's most recent words reclaimed a spot in the forefront of his mind.

Sensei wanted to talk to him about his time with Casey... _But why?_

He couldn't help feeling like a double standard had come into play; after all, Donatello was often with his human friend April, and their sensei rarely had a negative thing to say about it. And yet, a few late nights with Casey, and Raph was subject to lecture at the very least. Punishments often included suspension from television, revoked topside privileges, and even extra chores, and Raphael didn't mind them, really. But the lectures... were awful. The strict tone and disappointed expression on the rat's face was nearly unbearable.

That expression hurt more than anything else ever could.

Never the good son. Never the perfect student. Never anything right. The bitterness ripened within him at the very thought. No matter what he tried, any attempt to act like himself resulted in something bad, but he couldn't give it up.

Leo would never be asked to give up his honor, nor Don his experiments, or Mikey his humor. It seemed unfair that Raph would be expected to give anything up, to be scolded for partaking in one of the few things that made him feel good about himself.

The internal hurt ripped through him harsher than any weapon ever could. The injustice was there, intentional or not, and it ate at his core.

"It's bullshit," Raph fussed, grip tightening on his sais, knuckles paling. "I ain't did nothin' wrong." He looked down at his feet and curled his toes, feeling the rough texture of the roof beneath his calloused skin. "Why can't anyone else ever get in trouble?" he mulled, expression softening, eyes downcast and a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I try ta do things right. I just ain't good at it. I ain't got a big brain like Don. I ain't got Leo's perfectness and patience. And I ain't got Mikey's speed or good fuckin' nature." Slipping his weapons back into their respectable slots in his belt, he looked at his hands.

Green, three-fingered, and littered with scars. His hands looked like something from a human child's nightmares.

For a moment, he was almost disgusted with himself. The fact was, he could be the good guy and save the day a hundred times, but he'd still be the stuff nightmares were made of. No matter his disguise or good intent, he'd always look like a monster underneath. Not that he'd ever admit it out loud. It hurt sometimes, to know that he'd always be seen as a freak, that his appearance would always outweigh his deeds.

Curling his fingers, balling his hands into tight fists under his own watchful eyes, he couldn't help mumbling the question "Is this all I'm good for? Being a freak? Throwing a punch?" His voice was so soft, he barely recognized it. His chest felt too tight, as if his ribcage shrank and was too small to properly house his thudding heart.

Caught in his own reverie, he failed to notice the approach of several black-clad figures... Solid shadows advanced, weapons ready. And Raphael was none the wiser.


	3. Ch2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to TMNT or anything that I might reference. Credit and appreciation to those who do.

**CH2**

* * *

_[Solid shadows advanced, weapons ready. And Raphael was none the wiser.]_

_..._

Meanwhile, back at the lair, three turtles and a rat were situated around the table, their faces each holding some variation of solicitude. It had been a long day and an even longer night. Any plans they had to go out patrolling the city as a team were dashed the moment the hothead had run off... hours ago. For a while, no one gave it much thought; it was a fairly common occurrence for him to stomp off in an attempt to divert his rage.

The affair would have been left alone for the time being, if the rat hadn't stepped into the kitchen with an expression of trepidation as he leaned heavily on his makeshift cane. He looked at the three remaining turtles, holding their gazes for a stern moment before closing his eyes and steeling his focus. It was moments like this when he had to decide between acting as a father and a sensei. His paternal instincts bade him to offer kind words and comfort but the sensei in him opted for cold understanding and rationalization towards the subject at hand. After a brief moment of consideration, he decided to compromise the two senses of identity.

"My sons, I am greatly troubled," Splinter said with a shake of his head, his whiskers twitching, tail lashing in distress. "I cannot be the only on to have seen this change in Raphael. He is angry, and his trips away from home to the surface-world are becoming more frequent and lasting much longer. He believes his desertion is the key to fixing his problems, but it is only causing the rift inside him to grow larger, deeper, more hurtful. He hurts, and that feeling clouds his mind; it is a blinding force to be reckoned with. He expresses it with a burning rage that will pull him away from us if we do not get through to him. He has built a wall between himself and us. That wall, it is for his own protection, but I fear it is doing more harm than good. We must break that wall down." He punctuated his words with a tap of his cane to the floor.

The blue-banded son gave a respectful bow of his head as he acknowledged the words. "You're right, Sensei. Raphael has been acting... worse, more rash and impulsive. In training, he's been careless. When he's not training, he's quick-tempered. My first thought was that he needed more training to help himself find balance, but he has rejected it at every turn. Sometimes, it's like Russian Roulette whether or not he decides to get physical with his show of aggression. Sensei, what should I do? Raph won't listen to reason. He's too hotheaded, too stubborn, too-"

Leo's long-winded preach-speak was only half-noted by his brothers, but the rat grew tense at what he was hearing, and he put a stop to the words before they could become more harmful. "Leonardo," Master Splinter cut in with an uncharacteristic twitch in his eye, "you will stop your belittling at once! Those qualities are what make Raphael who he is. I do not wish for him to change, nor do I suspect that he would want to. However, he needs support. As his family, it is our duty to give it to him. Only by showing him support can we mend his hurtful feelings."

Donatello looked thoughtful, his eyes appearing as two endless mud-colored caverns of concern as he turned his back to his family and poured himself a cup of coffee into a mug that no longer had a handle -the reason for the omitted handle was little more than a memory, but the thought made the purple-clad ninja smile in spite of the quandary. He recalled with affection some time ago, when Raphael -in an attempt at apology- had made coffee for Don. He'd poured it into this very mug and attempted to deliver it immediately, severely misjudging the steaming hot temperature and burning his own hands in the process. He'd cursed loudly and dropped the cup. Crashing to the floor, the cup had become chipped and the handle had cleanly snapped off on impact. He'd apologized several times after that, but Don had seen through the mess of broken glass to the kind intent of the deed itself. He couldn't help the predilection, nor did he make any attempt to sway his thoughts on the matter. The memory, to him, was an affectionate one that spoke of his brother's good will.

Unaware of Don's own accountability and not really focusing on dwellings of the past, Michelangelo's minute attention span was still on Splinters suggestion at supporting Raphael. The orange-masked turtle groaned in a mix of apprehension and boredom. He leaned back so that his chair balanced precariously on two legs. "How we gonna support him, sensei? We can't just go up to him, hug him, and say that we're glad he has anger issues. He'd whack me upside the head for sure... and he'd only do that _after_ trying to kill me! And he wouldn't be killing me with _kindness_!" Mikey tipped his chair back just a bit further - _too far_ \- and toppled backwards with a surprised shout. "Gyaah!" His cry was indignant and he quickly scrambled to his feet before righting the chair. He let out an odd sound that was somewhere between a nervous gasp and a suppressed giggle. "Heh..."

"My son, please, calm yourself. We must discuss this rationally before Raphael returns," Splinter said. He suddenly appeared more tired and aged; his whiskers drooped and it was with notable effort that he stood a little straighter and kept his head held high. "I fear the road ahead is not an easy one, but it is one we must travel. We must first talk with Raphael, learn why his hurt is so great and why he reacts with such violence."

Listening to his sensei, Leo couldn't help agreeing. He scuffed his foot on the floor and curled his toes against the texture; he did this three or four times before catching himself and halting the action altogether. It had been an old habit, one he hadn't indulged in some time, not since he was young and still on good terms with his red-banded sibling. Some part of him noted that Raphael _still_ had this habit, but he quickly pushed the thought from his mind and paid attention to what Splinter had said. "Someone should talk to Raph," he voiced calmly. "As leader, I would be the first choice for the assignment, but what about Don?" as Leo spoke up, his eyes focused on the rat and his toes -seemingly on their own accord- once again began to scuff and curl along the grainy surface. "Master Splinter, with all due respect, Raph can't stand me; he's too quick-tempered, and we'd only fight again. And he'd throttle Mikey if he could catch him. But I don't think Raph has a grudge against Donatello. Maybe Don could-"

"I'm right here, Leo," the purple-banded turtle spoke, voice low-key in its chide at being overlooked; his brown eyes were pastoral and contemplative. "I could talk to Raph, but I don't want to pressure him. If I did, he'd just turn away from me too." He sipped at his coffee, cradling the cup between both hands and lightly running his thick fingers over where the handle once was. The memory still warmed him. "Raphael means well, most of the time; it just seems like he has so much going on in here-" maneuvering the coffee mug to one hand, he pressed the other hand over his pastron where his heart was- "and not enough activity up here-" he moved the same hand and tapped a finger to his temple- "to keep everything in check. His heart is in the right place, but his head gets in the way." With those words concluding, he drew the mug between both hands once more and took a longer, more tentative sip.

At Donatello's explanation, everyone was silent, taking the words in for honest consideration -excluding Mikey, who seemed to simply accept Don's word as law and allowed his own attention to bounce around the room like a disjointed echo. His stomach growled and he made a vocal imitation of the sound. Once his mind drifted to the subject of food, it was all he could focus on.

Deciding to ignore the plight of his youngest brother's gurgling tummy, Leo committed his focus to the problem at hand: Raphael's blatant frustration and Don's earnest understanding. Allowing small sigh, Leo straightened his posture and offered a reassuring smile. "You're right, Don. Raph has always been like that. He's passionate to a fault; though, it's been more noticeable lately. Perhaps we reacted too strongly on the negative aspects and have neglected the good in him." He looked thoughtful, though his expression had lightened considerably, as if he were relieved and felt his own stress and tension leaving. Knowing that Don was able to understand and explain it so well, Leo could almost physically feel a weight lifted from him. The relief was evident in his demeanor and tone as he spoke once more. "I don't want anything to put an unnecessary strain on our family. We'll get through this together." He trained his gaze back onto Splinter. "Sensei, what do we do? We need to do something. We can't sit back and wait for Raph to come to his senses."

"My sons, it is late; we will rest. I will meditate on this. I'm sure an answer will be clear in the morning." He offered a kind smile to each of the teens. "For now, I believe there is a movie on the television about Mighty Ducks. Let us watch. And, Michelangelo, you may order pizza."

"Awesome! We are totally getting jelly beans as a topping! And pineapple! And sardines! And hot sauce, and-" In Mikey's excitement, he missed the soured faces of his brothers who were much less enthusiastic about exotic additives.

Unable to stop himself, Donatello couldn't help voicing a new concern. "Sensei, you know Mighty Ducks isn't about actual _ducks_ , right?"

Leo allowed himself a chuckle at Don's words. " _That_ 's what you're worried about, Donnie? Shouldn't you be more concerned with the _food_ Mikey expects us to _ingest_?"

And with a few barbs and good-natured laughs at one another's expense, the plight with Raphael was all but forgotten. Spirits high and tensions low, an appreciatively calm night of familial bonding awaited.

...

* * *

_[Topside]_

If Raphael cared about time, he'd carry a watch. But he wasn't measuring the weight of passing time by the ticking of a clock; instead, he measured it in breaths taken and foes fallen. As far as he was concerned, the night was young. If the bruising of his knuckles was anything to go on, he could keep up the rush well into the morning hours.

Part of him wanted to call Casey- not for help, but for the sake of camaraderie. But, of course, he'd bitterly recalled the double standard and his own promise not to be involved with the vigilante that donned a hockey mask. Instead, tonight, he'd fight alone. By himself. No help. No brotherly barbs and fun. Just himself against the world- or at least, against a fleet of black-clad ninja.

Determined and fierce, he held a sai in each hand as the number of opponents had dwindled under the pressure of his attacks.

The fight that had started on the rooftops had crossed over several buildings and down to street level in a more vacant part of town.

Raphael had just struck another Foot soldier in the temple with the blunt end of a sai, rendering him unconscious as he fell into a heap on the ground with a dull thud resounding.

Breathing deeply from the exertion put into the workout, he looked around, taking inventory of the number of Foot he'd been up against. He'd taken down at least twenty on his own, and he'd even dragged the fight out with a few of the more skilled ninja, but all too soon he ran out of foes to drop.

Stretching languidly and cracking his neck, he felt a sense of accomplishment course through him. He was almost smiling.

_Almost_.

His head felt clear and the bulk of his tension had left several Foot ago. The thrill of the fight and the pride in his success had all but emptied his mind and replaced his prior anguish with something serene.

With one last look around, eyes carefully searching the shadows near and far, he decided he could finally head back to the lair. He'd cooled down enough, and he was certain his family would give him time to himself at least til morning. They'd forgive him, and he'd play it off like he always did. They were family after all; families were supposed to forgive each other.

Yeah, he could go home. Finally. And when he got home, he wouldn't even insult Leo or yell at Mikey. The thought made him smirk, but there was nothing vicious about the expression on his face; his eyes held a soft glow in the dim lighting. He was almost content with the idea of going back home and into a warm and welcoming environment. Sewers be damned, it was still home.

Surmising the distance between his current location and the lair, he quickly decided on which route to take and did a quick flip towards the shadows, letting the darkness envelop him.

There was a manhole less than a block away; he could easily get to it unseen, and that was his intention.

At least, it _was_ until his eyes caught sight of something silver that glimmered in the moonlight. That silver, cold metal littered with spikes and resting over the form of his clan's most hated enemy. _The Shredder._

With an internal groan that was just barely suppressed, Raphael had to decide -quickly- whether to stand his ground and fight, or flee...

The last vestiges of adrenaline coursing through him, his mind was made up. Stepping out of the shadows, he brandished his weapons and turned his full attention to his pending foe. Baring his teeth, he called out: "Let's see what ya got, Metal-Mouth!"


	4. Ch3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't have any ownership ties to TMNT or anything referenced. Credit to those who do.

**CH3**

* * *

The last vestiges of adrenaline coursing through him, his mind was made up. Stepping out of the shadows, he brandished his weapons and turned his full attention to his pending foe. Baring his teeth, he called out: "Let's see what ya got, Metal-Mouth!"

His stance firm, muscles taut, lips curled back and browline creased to articulate a snarling expression, he was less than half a breath away from making a move. His brain was emptied, static, and his instinct was just about to kick into overdrive. He lunged, one sai moving up to block an attack while the other slid in a slashing motion to strike his foe. While planning to fight offensively, his moves were countered; his blades became tangled in the spiked gauntlets of his foe and were pulled from his own grip and flung to the pavement with a fluent jerk of the Shredder.

Aside from blocking and disarming the turtle, Shredder made no other move to fight. He simply stood in place, eyes staring at Raphael as if in appraisal of a fine gem. Those eyes, sinister as ever between the parallel sheets of metal, refused to blink or avert.

Weaponless, Raph visibly tensed, expecting the fight to escalate quickly with ill-favors towards himself; his patience was nearly nonexistent, and he just barely avoided the temptation to swoop in and reclaim his missing blades; the act would leave him vulnerable for too long. He watched Shredder for a sign of movement, some kind of tell on what he wanted. When no attack came, Raph laced his fingers and cracked his knuckles. Then, a crack of the neck and a roll of the shoulders later, and he was barreling forth with the intent to tackle the evil villain he'd been trained to despise. To his surprise, even with the force of his momentum, his move faltered and failed.

Shredder simply braced himself and held up his hands, firmly grasping Raphael by the shoulders and preventing anything further from happening. Holding him in place, he stared at the turtle and tilted his head in a way that should have looked more menacing; instead it just looked awkward. He tightened his grip, fingers digging into the leathery green flesh of the shorter fighter. The strength behind the grip was neither painful nor threatening, but it was more than enough to alert Raphael and make him wary as the Shredder's own filtered voice made itself known. "Calm yourself, Raphael. I did not come to fight you." As if to prove himself, he slowly relinquished his hold on the turtle and drew his hands away, taking a dozen carefully measured steps back to put distance between them, ensuring safety and withdrawing any threat. "I watched your fight, and I wanted to tell you that it was... impressive. Your skills as a fighter are improving with each battle." His voice held a lilt of amusement. He slid his feet apart, widening his stance for better balance and a more arrogant position as he crossed his arms over his chest in a way that almost seemed petulant. Out of place and out of character.

Seeing this, Raph was furious... because the position was not unlike his own that he'd taken up by unconscious default once there was fair ground between them once more. He didn't miss this fact, this insulting mimicry. Heat boiled under his flesh, warning him of impending rage. His head pounded, and he uncrossed his arms in a way of defiance, to deny any similarity that might have been. He would have adjusted his footing as well, but he was all too aware of his need for balance in case an attack would be launched. It was with a severe delay that the armored foe's words truly sank in, and he relented his rage, pulling back and slamming his fist into the nearest thing- a lamp post. The pole dented with the force of the blow, but he was too numb with aggression to feel any recoil. And, not wanting praise from his enemy, nor seeing any value in it, he let loose the first words that came to mind: "Dammit! Why don't ya just... fuck off, Shred-Head!?" His breath came in terse gasps through clenched teeth and flared nostrils, and his vision once again caught a glimpse of his sais that lay on the pavement several feet away.

_'Tuck and roll,'_ he thought quickly. _'A quick tumble, and I can get to 'em.'_

"Oh, all this hostility, and I only offered you a compliment, Raphael," the man said, voice chiding as if reprimanding a child for spilling milk or refusing to share toys.

But the condescending tone only goaded the turtle. "Fuck you, Tin-Teeth! Ya want more goofy nicknames? Thanks ta Mikey, I've got about twenty more! And you should know, they get stupider as the list gets longer." He paused, blinked, and took a moment to mentally grasp the next nickname he had in the arsenal of his memory vault. Channeling his inner-Mike, he shouted: " _Bucket-Breath_!" Thinking that crude name-calling would rile up his foe and get the fight rolling, he was disappointed to find that it didn't. In fact, his opponent didn't appear the least bit perturbed. Realizing this, Raphael felt a little foolish for trying. Humor wasn't his thing; he wasn't good at it. So, with a sharp breath, he tried another route, one that was decidedly more crass. Something less Mike-like and more Raph-ready. " _Dumbass_ ," he said with finality.

That last word -simple as it was- _did_ manage to get a reaction from Shredder, but it wasn't what the turtle wanted or expected. Rather than becoming angry or even annoyed, he chuckled deeply, the sound bellowing louder as it escaped the metal-casing over the lower half of his face. "My, my. Such language. You caught me by surprise; though I should have expected it, I suppose. Nevertheless, I feel the need to reiterate and get my point across." He swept his arm out in a grand gesture, motioning to the number of fallen Foot. "You took down a significant number of highly trained ninja all on your own. And I have to wonder, where were your brothers in all of this?"

A grunt of disapproval escaped Raph as he gave an auto-response. "If yer askin' where the lair is, I ain't tellin' ya nothin'!" His response was automatic, rehearsed, ingrained in his head and heart all the same. He could never reveal the location of their home; he'd never dream of intentionally endangering those he cared for. Even if he was angry with his brothers and sensei, he still loved them; he'd do whatever it took to keep them safe. His heart pounded, he could almost feel the blood rushing through his veins and getting too hot. His vision blurred -a sign that his rage was building and he might lose control. He needed to hit something, _soon_. Against his better judgement, he let his enemy out of sight in favor of sending a look of longing to the damaged post. He was so tempted to hit it again... His fists tightened desirably.

Raph's attention was drawn away from the urge when he heard an unfamiliar sound. Not quite a chuckle -something closer to a suppressed laugh, but the unfamiliarity stemmed from the voice and the speaker.

_The Shredder_ should never make that kind of sound. A deranged man should never sound so... _human._

And yet, there it was, cold hard proof that Shredder was _laughing,_ and the sound wasn't even menacing. His shoulder armor took rise and then fell, articulating a show of mirth that looked out of place on this particular villain. Then, clearing his throat and reclaiming an aura of stoicism, he spoke again, words blunt for the individual before him. "I am not asking any information of you, Raphael. I am saying that your fighting skills are commendable. Your reaction and distrust suggests that you do not get complimented regularly, which is a shame considering your talent. Had your brothers been here, I wonder if they might hold you back. I know your leader - _Leonardo_ \- often tells you to retreat. He thinks you're _weak_. The smart one- _Donatello_ \- he always has the answers, but he never wants to fight, does he? He could never _understand_ you. And the other one - _Michelangelo_ \- he's just so-"

"Don't ya _dare_ berate my family," Raph interrupted; the rage that had conceded in his moment of perplexity was now boiling over and rolling off him in waves, threatening to drown him and anyone caught in the crossfire. "Who gave ya the right ta say that about them?! They ain't-"

"- _Here_ ," Shredder said, interrupting with the intent to finish his red-banded adversary's sentence. "Your family isn't here. But _you_ are, and you did _marvelous_. Take pride in your _strength_ , Raphael. In a world that brands you an outcast and a _freak_ , it is all you have." With those words, Shredder took a few steps closer to the turtle.

Disoriented and trying to process what his enemy was saying -more importantly, what his foe actually _meant_ \- his anger temporarily subsided. It seemed as if he was only capable of latching onto a single emotion at a time, and each one was magnified tenfold. His mind was reeling, head spinning. Key words from his enemy were echoing in his head, getting trapped in his brain and refusing to let go. Then, too late he noticed how the distance between them had shortened; in response, Raph tensed and bared his teeth aggressively, trying desperately to hold onto the rage that told him to fight. Because rage would keep him alive in the heat of battle. And this _was_ a battle, right?

His fists were tingling, a reminder that he'd hit the post earlier and hadn't hit anything since... For a moment, the lack of fighting muddled his own understanding, weakened his grasp on the situation and forced him into something strange and distant, borderline detached. It took almost all his willpower to draw himself back to where he needed, to remain focused.

Even so, Shredder refrained from furthering his advance just yet; he paused to hold up his hands in a universal promise of surrender. "I mean you no harm, Raphael," he explained. "I am simply complimenting your work and collecting what is mine." With a nod towards the turtle, he began a slow and purposeful stride; he came closer until there was less than a few feet of space between them. Rather than attacking like Raph had expected, Shredder simply bypassed and knelt down; he grabbed the hand of a fallen Foot soldier that had -until that moment- become part of the scenery.

With his confusion only continuing to grow, Raph couldn't help the strange look that fell over his features and crushed his face into something pitiful and child-like, desperate to understand. "What are ya doin'?" With every fiber of his being, he wanted to say something snarky and spiteful, but curiosity got the better of him, and he couldn't help asking. Besides, there was no harm in a simple question, as far as he knew.

Holding onto the Foot, Shredder quirked a brow at his green enemy, the thin curve rising to disappear under his metal helm. "Isn't it obvious? My men are unable to get up, but they are alive and I intend to get every one of them to safety for medical attention." He spoke in the way a teacher might correct a student's grammar, simple and patient but assertive all the same.

But Raphael just continued to stare, nearly gawking as he watched the armored man hoist the unconscious solider up with ease before going to look over the wounds of another.

"Of course, Raphael," Shredder spoke calmly, "you and your brothers never stick around long enough to see this part: the part where we collect our fallen comrades from the battlefield. No, you cause damage and flee before repercussions set in. Then again, I suppose that is no choice of yours. Your leader is very insistent on running whenever possible. And it is so obvious that you _hate_ running." Carefully setting the injured soldier down, he inspected a particularly nasty bleeding gash on another. Deciding that the wound wasn't fatal, he reclaimed his footing and began to collect both injured ninja in his arms. Shouldering two young masked men, Shredder turned his back to Raphael and began to walk away, not once looking behind him.

Mind racing, head pounding, heart pulsing, Raphael said the only thing he could think to say. "You shouldn't turn yer back on me. I could attack ya, y'know," Understanding his own words to be something between a threat and a warning, he felt his jaw tighten and eyes narrow in a habitually grim fashion.

The armored man was silent for a moment before simply saying: "I know. But you will not harm me, not right now. You have too much pride to attack an unready opponent."

Narrowing his eyes a bit further, Raph grumbled "Ya don't know me very well. All the honor bullshit belongs to Leo. I could kill ya right now, and you'd never pose another threat to me, my brothers, or Master Splinta."

The threat had been placed with all the civility of a tossed gauntlet, but Shredder just continued his casual pace. "I may not know you, Raphael, but I know enough. If you wish to face me, we will do it fairly, at a later time. For now, it is enough for me to say that you fought well. And I want you to _keep_ the compliment."

Raph eased out of his fighting stance, not entirely sure when he'd slipped into it. He heaved a sigh and glanced at his discarded weapons. Training his eyes back onto his retreating enemy, he moved to retrieve his sais. Once both were firmly in his grasp, he felt a little... better. Noting that and taking a moment to appreciate the fading anxiety, he leaned against the wall of a nearby building and watched his enemy walk away until he disappeared somewhere between the distance and darkness. Barely a second later, a flicker of motion caught his attention and spiked his awareness, his senses ablaze, but he soon recognized it to be more Foot, and while that would usually be cause for alarm, their focus seemed to be solely on collecting their unconscious allies.

From his spot against the wall, Raph watched them take their leave. Once they were gone and out of sight and decidedly not coming back, he turned and made his way to the manhole. He was tired and frustrated; he just wanted to go home. He slipped the cover off and dropped into the sewer. It had been a long and thought-provoking evening, and he had a lot to think about on his trip back to the lair.


	5. Ch4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't have any ownership ties to TMNT or anything referenced. Credit to those who do.

**CH4**

* * *

He couldn't remember the last time his head hurt this bad. But worse than the headache was the drained and empty feeling in his chest. Part of him wanted to be angry, to lash out at anything and everything. There was even a small part of him that wanted to break down and release some waterworks, but greater than both of those desires was sheer _emptiness_. Lack of motivation, lack of caring. It was like a fatigue that preyed on his emotions and left him blank. Stole a vital piece of him. Took away anything that wasn't factual.

Raphael realized this during his trek home.

_Home_ , the word seemed so hollow. Minutes ago, it sounded like sanctuary. Now, it was simply ' _there_ ' and ' _that place_ ' and ' _not where I was_ ' and ' _underground_ ,' and in a distant voice: ' _prison_.'

On a brighter note, with the lack of feeling came the lack of bitterness as well. He would be so glad for that, if he could feel gladness.

But empty - _empty_ was something foreign and new, unwelcome.

Arriving and entering the lair with about as much subtly as a jackhammer, he looked around and vaguely, carelessly, reproachfully noted that everything was dark and quiet: a sure sign his brothers were in bed.

The television wasn't on and blasting noise from a newscast or videogame. The light in Donatello's lab was off -practical proof that he was either gone or out cold and lost in dreamland. The lair was devoid of any sign of life at first glance, though the scent of stale pizza wafted from the direction of the sofa where a small stack of empty boxes could be seen.

Deciding not to press his luck with his sleeping siblings, Raphael opted for sleep; he had just begun his slow saunter towards his room when he caught sight of flickering candles. Which meant his sensei was not only awake but likely meditating.

With unshakeable resolve, he approached the flickering light and was rewarded with the view of his paternal figure sitting in the lotus position, eyes closed and breathing deep.

A quick breath, and he stepped further into the room. "Master Splinta?" He beckoned, instantly dropping to his knees to kneel before the rat. Empty or not, he didn't want to disrespect his sensei.

Hearing the familiar greeting, Splinter cracked one eye open before slipping it closed once more. "It is good to see you, my son. What ails you?" His tone gave away how weary he was.

Sitting up but refusing to look directly at the rat, Raphael acknowledged that he could've gone to bed and avoided this confrontation; in fact, he probably _should_ have. But this empty feeling inside had him almost physically aching. His insides felt cold and unsettled. He was stressed, stretched too thin for his own mental capacity to handle, and at this moment he'd give just about anything for a reassuring hand on his shoulder and a few words of comfort.

That's all he wanted.

His eyes dull and mutely pleading, he rolled his eyes up to stare at the rat for a moment before speaking. "Master Splinta- sensei- father..." he tried each name he knew to call the benevolent mutant before dropping formalities altogether. " _Dad_ ," he said, voice more firm and confident. "Can I get a word with ya? It's about what happened tonight. I think it's kinda important. Y'see-" He began with the intent to launch into a full explanation, first and foremost, skipping over the pleasantries and hoping to rid himself of this unfortunate block of ice that seemed to weigh him down and freeze his core. In his mind, he rationed that he just needed to talk to Splinter, and then the cold icy feeling would go away. By morning, everything would be better.

By morning, he could apologize to his brothers. Shredder would still be the bad guy. And all would be right with the world.

He latched onto that line of thinking -the promise of tomorrow- needing something to hold onto.

Unfortunately, he did not count on his father's alleged wisdom and ability to understand a situation before being told. Having raised four boys on his own, it was a fascinating and very necessary skill, to look a child in the eye and know when he was lying or hurting; to know when he was up to mischief. But the rat was growing older, his senses a little less keen and observant. And with each lecture he gave, it was becoming more and more obvious that he was not some cosmic being with the ability to know everything. His next words confirmed this fact even further.

"Ah, you fought with your brothers and fled, my son. Then you met up with Mr Jones for another night of rambunctious activity." He gave a nod at his own words, then his tail gave a swish. "I have thought much about your words and behavior, and I have come to a conclusion regarding the matter."

Blinking several times in rapid succession, almost disbelieving, Raphael moved to verbally defend himself. Family delinquent or not, he was _not_ -and never would be- a liar. "But, sensei, I just-"

"You promised not to see Mr Jones, yet there you went tonight. Undoubtedly, you have tracked down civilians and passed judgement in ways that I do not encourage. While I understand and support you and your brothers working as a team to protect the city, this _solo-nonsense_ is a far cry from justice, my son. You must realize-"

"Please, Master Splinta, I-"

"Raphael! You will not interrupt me again!"

"I just really- Tonight, I-"

"I have decided to punish you lightly, considering your behavior."

"Punish?!" The word came out as a shriek. The emptiness Raphael had felt was gone, replaced by a fury he couldn't contain. He'd been hurt and confused, and he'd only wanted guidance. Before he could stop himself, he snapped at the mutant he called father. "Y'know what? Dis ain't right! Fuck yer punishment. Tonight, I ain't did nothin' wrong." He intended to keep his tone leveled, but his voice rose in pitch and intensity with each word. "I didn't see Casey, and I didn't go out to bash heads in neither! But y'know what? I ain't gonna tell ya what I did because it's none of yer damn business!"

"Raphael, you will-!"

" _I_ am goin' ta _bed_!"

"My son, you-"

"Don't call me _son_ til you start actin' like a _father_!"

"Raphael!"

"I am going ta fuckin' bed, and if ya have a problem, take it up with me tomorrow, preferably aftah ya submit it in writing!" By the time he'd finished, he wasn't even talking; he was screaming, loud and anguished. In a flurry of movement, too fast and reckless to be any kind of subtle or graceful - _to be anything ninja-like_ \- he teetered and stumbled around the room. He stirred the air with his rapid motions and inadvertently caused the candle flames to be blown out. But he was beyond caring. He'd made the room darker, but he wouldn't have been able to see even if the sun had poured in. His eyes nearly blind, white and sightless by this point.

With a cry of frustration, he slammed his foot into the wall as hard as he could before stealing away from the room.

He was tired, but the anger he felt was much more prominent than weariness. Though his mind told him to turn in, to go to bed, to sleep and hope the rage would fade by morning, his body acted against his wishes.

Almost on autopilot, he moved from room to room, until he'd covered most of the lair. He wasn't looking for anything, nor did he want to go anywhere. But he needed to _move_. He needed to do _something_. And so, it seemed inevitable that he would find himself standing before the leather-bound punching bag, fists tight and muscles tighter, expression altering between the extremities of lost and vindictive.

In the silence of the night -or was it early morning?- Raphael couldn't feel the burning sensation in his hands as the flesh on his knuckles became split, cracked and bleeding. His mind was too distant to process anything physical. And so, he heard more than felt each blow he dealt to the bag.

He swung wildly, fist biting into the weighted bag. He gave a quick follow-up with his other hand. He watched his target jump and sway from its binding chain for a moment before he slammed into it shoulder-first. He watched it spring away and glide back towards him, just in time to get a hard kick.

Once that first kick was landed, he kicked again. Side kick, spin kick, snap kick...

Uppercut, left hook, right cross, headbutt...

He unleashed everything he had in his reserves on the undeserving punching bag. Seconds seemed to stretch for miles and minutes felt like hours. He lost track of time- rather, time no longer seemed to hold any meaning.

In time, he couldn't even register what he was doing, what moves he was using. It had all become purely animalistic, from the wild swings to the growling and grunting sounds he emitted as he viciously attacked.

His rough treatment had torn a few small holes into the bag that had previously been patched and sewn and taped to preserve its longevity. But he didn't dwell on that. He hardly registered the sand that leaked and puddled beneath his designated 'beat-down area.'

Even if he had registered the tear in the bag, he probably wouldn't have stopped the assault. Compassion was beyond him. In his rage-induced stupor, exhaustion and immobility were the only things that would make him cease.

And after an immeasurable amount of time, he _did_ cease. Passed out, fell harshly to the floor and was cushioned by sand. His eyes closed, harsh gasping breaths slowly evening out and, most importantly, his mind went blank, gave in to the pull of unconsciousness. And he welcomed it.


	6. Ch5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to TMNT or anything referenced. Credit to those who do.

**CH5**

* * *

The ice inside him had melted. That was the only explanation for how wet he was. He broke out into a cold sweat as his restless body tossed and turned on the hard floor. The sheen of sweat collected grains of sand as he twisted and kicked in his state of unconsciousness, battling an unseen enemy as a terrifying dream rocked him from the inside out.

...

_[Dream Sequence]_

_It was dark. An endless void. Even the air seemed black, if possible. And yet, there was a light. The spotlight shown from above, an unknown source; it flooded around the red-banded turtle and threatened to steal precious breath from his lungs. The light terrified him, but he steeled himself a brave face and refused to show weakness or fear. Yet, as his breath depleted, his only option was to gulp in heaps of the black tainted atmosphere. That atmosphere, too dense and black to be any kind of oxygen, felt thick as it entered his body._

_He did his best to stifle his fright, taking a rough stumble and trying to elude the light that poured from above, but when he moved, so did the light. It followed him, refusing to let him go._

_His mind told him to run, to hide, to take refuge in the shadows, but no matter how he dodged or ran or floundered about, the light remained fully on him. Worse yet, when his air ran out, he could feel his lungs squeezing, deflated like a balloon and refusing to take in anything more- not that there seemed to be any air for him to inhale._

_The lack of oxygen made him dizzy. His mind grew fuzzy._

_A voice reached his ears._

"Take pride in your strength, Raphael. In a world that brands you an outcast and a freak, it is all you have."

_Just as the words began to sink in, that painful ray of light turned into liquid around Raphael. Gone was the initial source of light and, surrounding the turtle's feet, was this impossibly bright puddle. He could feel the liquid squelch around his feet when he moved. He tried to step out of the puddle, but it only stretched wider, almost mocking him. He growled in response, regretting the action when his air-tight throat constricted painfully._

_He looked around, frantic, desperate for help. Even in the infinite realm of darkness, he could make out the presence of five others. His heart raced as his mind worked to process who was there._

_A hundred possibilities flashed in his mind's eye, but he quelled his worries when the brightness of the puddle seemed to illuminate three colored masks._

_Blue._  
Purple.  
Orange.

_Three out of five interlopers were identified and promptly ignored -decidedly safe and non-threatening- as Raphael focused with everything in him, trying to discern the other two beings who were present._

_He felt terribly exposed in this puddle of light, this liquid beacon. And, knowing that strangers were among the shadows, watching him, he began to relent his panic. His body quivered. He sorely missed the ability to breathe._

_He reached for his sais, just in case, only to find that they weren't in his belt._

_And- fuck, wait! A strange realization cut through the horrible situation. The puddle of light, it seemed higher, as if it had risen. Yet it remained in place. He looked down at it, the light nearly blinding, like looking into the sun and burning his retinas. And yet he stared, almost mesmerized, trying to figure out what about the puddle had changed._

_Despite the unidentified persons nearby that remained cloaked in darkness, this horrific glowing liquid gripped and held his attention._

_And then, it happened. So slight that he almost could have imagined it... but it HAD happened, right before his eyes as if to forsake his denial. The puddle did not rise; instead, he SANK._

_At first, it was just an inch or so, but as the seconds ticked away, he found that the liquid was getting higher- no! He was getting lower! Rather than an annoying brightness that sloshed around his feet, it was up to his calves and splashing when he moved too briskly._

_He tried to lift his legs, to step out, but his limbs suddenly felt too heavy to move. He opened his mouth to scream, to cry out in frustration, to yell for help from the brothers he knew were there, but nothing came out. No air, no sound, nothing._

_His eyes felt wet, but he refused to admit that he was capable of crying. He just looked around, head whipping back and forth so fast that his bandana tails slapped his face. He needed help, but it wouldn't come, and he couldn't ask._

_Suddenly, the lighted puddle grew brighter, just enough to illuminate a bit more of his surroundings, and he could make out the dingy fabric of a familiar robe and, peeking out from that robe was a long tail. A rat's tail._

_Raphael couldn't fathom a response to give, not that he would be physically able to give one anyways._

_His brothers and father remained bathed in darkness, watching him struggle, watching him become devoured by an impossible puddle of light._

_Bowing his head, he felt hope leaving him. Hope, if he had it to begin with, was dying and taking any form of happiness with it. He awaited emptiness. But, it didn't come._

_He was robbed of despair the moment a series of pained cries met his ear slits; he recognized each of the cries very distinctly._

_The aged gasp of Splinter._   
_The reluctant grunt of Leonardo._   
_The surprised shout of Donatello._   
_And finally, the pained wail of Michelangelo._

_Part of Raphael wanted nothing more than to take their pains away, but another part of him believed that they deserved it. After all, they didn't lift a finger to help him in his time of need. Even now, the strange puddle was sucking him in, the water up to his waist, and no one even seemed to notice or care._

_He closed his eyes tightly, his head heavy and heart heavier._

_Just when he decided to let them go and accept his own fate as well, he caught the sound of a blade slicing through the air. His eyes snapped open with lightning speed, and he shouted the first thing that came to mind._

_"Leeooooooooo!"_

_Surprised by the context of his shout, but even more surprised by the fact that he'd been able to yell at all, his eyes searched the darkness for his blue-masked brother. He looked for the active katana blades that might follow._

_But he found neither._

_Leo was gone. There was no katana. None of his brothers seemed present anymore, nor was his father._

_Instead, like leaves in the wind, three tattered masks fluttered into focus before evaporating altogether right before Raph's eyes. He groaned at the abstract implication, reaching out and clumsily grasping imaginary particles that might have been left behind._

_Frustration feasted on him as he dropped his arms to his sides and felt bright wetness lick at his skin._

_Some quiet voice in the back of Raphael's mind rattled a warning, telling him that there had been five other beings present, and only four were accounted for. With his family missing, someone else might still be there._

_He shook his head fiercely, trying to clear his mind and retain focus, but by that point, the puddle's liquid light was up to his chest, one arm trapped under water and the other still free and held high as if trying reach for help._

_Help that would never come. Help that he couldn't ask for. Help that didn't exist in his world._

_He missed the safety of shadows. He never hated light so much in his life. He inwardly cursed the sun for simply existing, foolishness be damned.  
_

_Then, as if in answer to an unasked prayer, he heard his own name, spoken calmly in a way that seemed to give him breath once more. His lungs took full advantage and hope had all but returned, and it all started with a single word.  
_

_"Raphael," a filtered voice had called from the shadows. A familiar voice. An enemy's voice._

_Raphael didn't have time to react, caught up in simply breathing once more; the puddle opened up wider and instead of sinking, he seemed to just drop into a large chasm of light, stopping only when a five-fingered hand closed around his wrist and held firm._

_He dangled helplessly, eyes wide, body being beckoned by a blindingly bright force he could hardly fathom. Then, looking up to his savior, he caught the gleam of sharp shiny metal..._

_[End Dream Sequence]_

...

Raphael awoke with a startled scream, coated in sweat, body trembling. He was soaked. Worse yet, as he sat there panting and gasping for breath, he looked down to see that sweat wasn't the only liquid he was coated in. A translucent yellow ran down his legs and under his shell, and one of his hands rested suspiciously in a bowl of warm water.

Shaking violently, an agonizing groan ripped through him as he processed everything all at once, coming to a horrifying conclusion.

In his peripheral vision, he detected motion, the color green, and a flash of orange.

"Uh oh! Raphie had an accident! Haha!"

"Miiiikeeeeey!"


	7. Ch6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH6**

* * *

Michelangelo had expected the wrath of his red-banded brother; he'd even prepared for it before setting up the childish prank. In all honesty, he meant no harm or ill will towards any of his siblings, especially Raph. He'd heard about this prank hundreds of times from television and movies and books; he wanted to know if it worked on mutant turtles like it worked on people.

Color him curious, he just _had_ to test it out.

Leonardo was too much of a light sleeper for Mike to pull off something so simple against him. He reasoned that it was possible, but he'd quickly calculated the feeling of triumph and weighed it against the effort and risk involved, and he almost instantly ruled out the blue-banded turtle as a choice victim.

Donatello was a definite possibility for the _hand-in-warm-water_ prank, if not for the fact that he'd entered his lab, locked the door, and had been unreachable for the rest of the night. Thus, he'd have to target his purple-clad brother another day.

So that only left Raphael as a remaining choice, a prime jestee. The emerald-skinned turtle had been stressed and angry, and Mikey reasoned that a good joke might turn everything around.

In hindsight, even Michelangelo could admit his error, but hindsight didn't save him from the strange look his brother had given him when he'd screamed his name.

_"Miiiikeeeeey!"_

The tone had been gruff with a distinct edge to it. Raphael's signature _'I'm-gonna-pummel-yer-face-til-it-looks-like-yer-ass'_ voice. And what a scary voice it was.

Michelangelo had prepared to run, to dodge, to jump and dance around the lair, taunting Raphael until he cooled off; then they could laugh about it together -y'know, after Raph had done his sulking.

But, much to Mike's surprise and dismay, Raphael didn't give chase. He simply got up, clenched his hands into tight shaking fists and spoke, voice deadly calm and a smouldering look of something akin to _hatred_ burning behind his eyes.

" _Michelangelo_ -" this would be the first of many times for Raphael to force such a long-winded word from his vocal cords. "I'm goin' ta shower. If you know what's good fer ya, you'll clean dis up and keep away from me fer the rest of the day. One wrong word, and I just might snap yer neck." The threat lain, his glare intensified.

Unaware and unassuming of the true animosity behind those eyes, the orange-banded brother had opened his mouth to retort, to either refute or make a joke, but instead he gave an indignant yelp when his older brother roughly shoved him aside, almost hard enough to knock him off balance.

Leaving Michelangelo to his own vices, Raphael went straight to the bathroom. His mind mused ' _Do Not Pass GO; Do Not Collect $200._ ' He didn't speak to anyone, nor did he spare them a glance. His own urine was drying on his skin, and with it remained a fair amount of the sand he'd slept amongst. He felt disgusted. He felt angry. He focused mainly on his anger, as it was easier to understand than the mortification that hadn't quite registered.

He directed his attention on his need for a shower, knowing that if he laid a hand on Michelangelo, he'd probably take the beating too far.

Entering the bathroom, he stripped himself of his gear and belt, tossing the articles side unceremoniously; he felt only a little guilty at the sound of his sais clattering against the hard floor. Lastly, his mask was removed. He took his time to carefully untie and pull the mask away from his face. He had to peel the fabric, for it had stuck to his rough-textured skin in the way it only does when it gets wet. Between blood, sweat, and tears, it was fairly common for him to feel the pull of fiber against his flesh.

He mulled it over, ponderous as he considered the number of blows he'd taken in his short life -the amount of blood that had to be washed from his skin, not all of it his own. He considered the strain he put on his body, in training and fighting, in battling in ways that the rest of the world deemed either barbaric or prehistorically outdated, feudal. He considered the amount of times his eyes had become wet, leaking liquid emotion that he fought hard to hide... because it wasn't okay for him to cry or show weakness.

Such instances were degrading at best.

With a deep breath accompanied by a sigh, he placed the red strip of fabric on the sink; then he looked into the mirror above said sink.

In the glassy surface, he took in his appearance. A darker green than his brothers. Sunken eyes with irises colored to rival the sunset. The ridges of his shell and the upper portion of his scratched and chipped plastron. There was nothing directly _wrong_ with his appearance; it was virtually normal, in a mutated-turtle sort of way. Yet he couldn't find it in himself to appreciate it. Aside from the sheer mass and size of his muscles, there was little to be proud of.

He hated the fact that there was a mirror in the lair at all; he hated the fact that he bothered to look into it. He acknowledged the fact that a mirror in a bathroom was a considerably normal thing, but it bothered him to know he could never look into it without seeing something so horribly abnormal.

He didn't mind that he wasn't human. Granted he envied their freedom to walk in the sunlight and have a social life without his form of anxiety, he wouldn't begrudge what they couldn't help. He wouldn't wrongfully fault them if he could help it. While it was impossible for him _not_ to wonder what it would be like if he were human, it was never a subject to dwell on for long, and it didn't leave a bitter taste in his mouth afterwards. What troubled him was that despite him having three very similar companions, of the four of them, he was the most monstrous. He was bulkier, more intimidating and emotionally raw.

In many ways, he was a monster among monsters, a fact that he didn't bother to hide. There was no point.

The term ' _alienated'_ comes to mind, but the thought is fleeting.

He glared at the mirror, as if it had assaulted him in some way, as if it had been the reason for his vexation and grievance.

His reflection baiting him, he lifted his head in a show of defiance; whether it was defiance against himself or circumstance, he couldn't be certain. He was just barely able to restrain himself from the volatile urge that had set in; though he felt the fierce desire, he didn't slam either fist into the awaiting mirror. Instead, he turned to the showers to rid himself of filth.

-His shower wasn't a long one. Being raised in a sewer, there was only so much respect one could have for cleanliness, but he did make sure to use soap, and he was only decidedly finished when he was free from the physical evidence of the shame he carried.

Because he _was_ ashamed and embarrassed at the consequence of Mikey's prank.

Even if it wasn't his fault, he felt foolish for what had happened -for waking up to _that_.

Getting out of the shower and grabbing a towel to dry off, he tried to focus on the events of the past couple days, to understand and accept everything as it was. To simply get over the martyrdom of it all.

He'd lost a sparring match against Mikey. He'd been chided by Leo. He'd run off, had a brawl with the Foot, of which he was the victor. Then there was the strange and questionable encounter with the Shredder. The trip home. The interaction he had with Splinter that left him feeling more hurt than angry. His little excursion with his punching bag. And finally, his nightmare.

The nightmare seemed important, somehow; it had terrified him to a nearly traumatizing extent. But now, he could only remember it in flashes. Blurry, vague, muted flashes that were gradually losing meaning. His mind recalled something wet. He recalled sinking. He remembered yelling for help, seeing his brothers and father and knowing that they wouldn't bother to help. And... that's where his memory runs dead. Low battery. Empty.

He took a deep breath and pulled on his gear. The pads and belt came on easy; he wrapped his hands and wrists, and his mask was tied on last.

He rested his hands at the hilts of each sai to ensure the comfort of their presence before exiting the bathroom.

Out of habit, if nothing else, he headed for the kitchen. Entering the kitchen was a lot like entering a movie reel. Each scene almost appeared to be spliced with the one next to it and could be singled out accordingly.

Splinter, with his solemn gaze and a cup of tea between his small clawed hands, his tail restless.  
Leonardo, shoulders tense and eyes trained on his activities as he sat at the table and polished his swords.  
Donatello, standing beside the coffee maker, familiar broken mug caught between his hands and mouth as he took a drink.  
And Michelangelo, a nervous ball of energy, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, fingers fidgeting.

It was quiet, much quieter than most of their mornings.

With a decisive nod, Raphael concluded that he didn't mind the odd silence; he had nothing to say to anyone anyways. He went over to the cupboards and pulled out a bowl and a box of cereal. He set the bowl down on a counter and opened the box, pouring the cereal into the bowl until it filled and began to steeple. The box was nearly empty by then, so Raphael opted to finish it off. He shook it to encourage the last of its contents to join his meal- but, cereal wasn't the _only_ thing that came tumbling from that box.

A small blue rubber roach clamored from the cardboard casing and fell atop the pile of sugary grain. Seeing the insect, regardless of how fake it was, caused his breath to hitch, nerves frayed.

His heart pounded, vision blurred.

Suddenly, hunger was the last thing on his mind. His gaze turned to Mikey and his vision tunneled. He stared directly at his orange-banded brother, but all he saw was red.


	8. Ch7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH7**

* * *

_Suddenly, hunger was the last thing on his mind. His gaze turned to Mikey and his vision tunneled. He stared directly at his orange-banded brother, but all he saw was red._

There was no word for the sound that bellowed forth, starting from Raph's diaphragm and rising with ferocity, drawing out of his mouth in the harsh mockery of a battle cry. He slammed bodily into Michelangelo, pinning the younger turtle between himself and a wall.

Sightless, blind with _feeling_ , he screamed wordlessly, saliva catching display between his top and bottom teeth in the way that can only be expected from cheesy horror flicks.

Pinned, uncomfortable, and perturbed by the pressure of his sibling's plastron against his own, Mikey tried desperately to pull away, to no avail; it only caused discomforting friction and an odd scraping sound that grated on his ear slits. He cringed at the sight before him and tried again to wriggle free, but his efforts proved fruitless still. "Dude, bro, your breath totally stinks! Like, mondo-grosso!" he said jokingly, trying to laugh the tension away. "I could get you a breath mint, but, uh, I left it in my other shell."

If humor was something to be tested on, he failed: a big fat letter ' _F_ ' stamped in place by his older brother's pungent spew of odorous breath.

Michelangelo gagged and turned his head away to escape the turtle incarnation of a bio-nuclear assault -or at least chemical warfare.

Raph, unable to quell his own inner beast, gnashed his teeth together, making a vicious snapping gesture in an attempt to threaten and intimidate. Teeth bared, he growled, the sound low and rumbling. Then slowly, ominously, he brought up a large fist. He drew back, knuckles paling and nails digging into his palms; finally, he drove his hulk-like mitt into the the side of his younger brother's head.

Unable to pull away or defend himself, Mikey registered pain and blurred vision before he noticed the blood in his mouth; he'd apparently bitten his tongue. He fought for a proper response, but proved to be too disoriented to do anything more than hang his head.

Thankfully, before another blow could come, the family intervened.

Swords abandoned, Leo was behind Raph in a flash. He hooked an arm around Raph and anchored its corresponding hand onto the back of Raph's neck. Leo's free hand quickly shot out and gripped Raph's other wrist tightly to prevent further movement. A quarter-nelson had been executed. The nelson hold was effective, though it was anything but fool-proof against his violent brother.

Leo knew from experience that Raph was more physically adept, but he refused to let go, keeping his hold secure. He kept his arms locked in place, accepting that he would either prevail or risk a dire break to his arms should Raphael get loose.

Thankfully, Leo's efforts were assisted by Don, whose bo was swiftly lodged between Michelangelo and Raphael; he proceeded to pry them apart with grudging effort.

Once there was adequate space provided, Mikey slipped out from his spot between Raph and the wall and stumbled over to Splinter.

Splinter waited with open arms and hugged his youngest son without a second thought. After a moment of consolidation, he gripped the turtle by the shoulders and forced him to back up a step so he could appraise the damage.

Where Michelangelo had been struck, the skin was darkening around the point of impact, bruising; his eyes held a glazed look that spoke volumes of just how hard he'd been hit, and a thin trail of blood escaped his mouth and ran down his chin.

A dark emotion began to settle within the rat, but he held it at bay. After all, his sons needed him to be level-headed in the face of distress, and he would not fail them. "Leonardo, contain Raphael!"

"Hai, sensei!"

"Donatello, assist Leonardo!"

"I'm on it, sensei..."

Leo's muscles quivered with effort to remain locked and secure his hold, but he refused to relent. His teeth clenched and he squinted his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against his brother's carapace as he tightened his grip just a bit more.

Bo staff in hand, Don joined Leo's plight; he gave his weapon a twirl before swinging it forcefully into the back of Raph's knees, causing him to drop to a kneel and allow Leo better leverage. Satisfied with the small accomplishment, Don tucked his bo back into its respectable strap on his back. Then he took up position alongside Leo and slipped his own arms around Raphael.

At Don's signal, Leo pulled back and Don quickly and effectively pulled Raphael into a 'blood choke' hold. With surprisingly little strength necessary and proper restraint over the carotid arteries and jugular veins, Donatello counted the seconds for cerebral ischemia and a temporary hypoxic condition to befall Raphael and force him into a state of unconsciousness.

Simply put, a sleeper hold.

Having been forced to kneel and now feeling the added threat of those olive-colored arms around his neck, Raph visibly stiffened. His breath caught in his throat before continuing at a much calmer pace since his airway was not quite restricted. Slowly, his body began to relax and his eyelids fluttered. He felt himself slipping.

Seconds passed, though time seemed to move much slower, and it felt like a small eternity passed before Raphael spoke, his voice soft and hollow and empty all at once through his labored breathing. "I'm fine... Just... Sorry."

Leo kept vigil, positioned inches away from his brother in case more trouble ensued. Don loosened his hold but kept his arms around Raph, not taking the chance of another launched attack.

Splinter watched from a short distance, his arms once again around a dizzy Michelangelo. "Leonardo, Donatello, you have done well. I believe Raphael is done with his tantrum. There will be no training or practice this morning. Everyone will go to their rooms and remain there until I say otherwise."

Leo and Don exchanged odd and indecipherable looks as Don relinquished his hold and both he and Leo moved back to give their kneeling brother room to breathe.

Blinking more and taking deeper breaths, Raphael took longer than expected to pick himself up and get to his feet. He kept his gaze to the floor and shuffled out of the kitchen without a word, his toes curling and feet scuffing in a familiar way with every step he took.

Donatello was the only one who watched Raphael's exit.

"With all due respect, Master Splinter," Leo began once he knew Raph was out of earshot, "we shouldn't leave Raph alone. Whatever's wrong, we need to fix it." His voice was determined, but that determination did not reach his eyes.

Shifting his gaze towards the rat, Don took a breath before adding his own comment, his voice soft with compassion. "Master Splinter, we all know Raphael hasn't been himself for a while. We... all... heard that fight between you and him last night - _well, it was technically morning_. -If he came to you, maybe it was important and-"

"-He attacked me, Donnie," Mikey whispered; his eyes were wide and unfocused. His mouth hung open and his body trembled. "Raph attacked me..."

For a moment, Don wanted to cross his arms but decided against it; there would be no good in exerting Raph-like behavior. He fought to keep his arms at his sides as he lowered his head and confessed: "Mikey, you were perfectly aware that Raph was upset, and then you pranked him. I don't blame him for being mad."

"Donatello! Are you defending his violence?!" Splinter's concern had turned to something dark and accusing; the flash behind his eyes was startling.

"No," Don said, voice sounding more confident than he thought possible. He lifted his head, eyes meeting the rat's own beady optics with deadly accuracy and determination. "I'm not defending his actions, but his feelings were justified, Master Splinter. You said so yourself that he's hurting. If he's hurting, why aren't we helping?"

In that moment, Splinter took in the appearance of each of his sons, their emotions laid bare and unguarded before him. His own expression softened. "My sons, there is much healing to be done. Healing someone who is sick or wounded is easy. Healing a heart is not. But we must try. Raphael is sinking deeper into this inner darkness, and we must pull him out before it is too late."

"Raphie doesn't play with me anymore," Mikey cut in suddenly, his tone despondent.

"I'm still worried about his training," Leo confessed, lips drawing into a taut line.

"I, too, am worried, my sons, about Raphael's spiritual health."

Don looked between his father and remaining brothers. His own heart ached considerably. _'Is this what worries you?'_ he thought, refusing to voice the words that plagued him. _'Something is bothering Raph, and you only seem to care how it affects the family. But... Raph is part of the family. Shouldn't we find out what Raph wants?'_ A deep breath, and he finally spoke, his resolution decided. "I'm going to talk to him. Alone."

Ignoring Mikey's exaggerated whimper, Leo's offer of assistance, and Splinter's _'Be careful, my son,'_ Donatello took leave.

...

* * *

_[With Raphael]_

He had gone to his room, just as he vaguely recalled being told. Sitting in his hammock, he looked around at everything he owned, all he held dear, and he suddenly felt more foolish than ever.

The posters on the wall. The stack of magazines. The rack of weapons. The weight bench he frequented. The notebooks he used to write in when he was younger...

The memory of those notebooks froze all other thoughts. Those books had been a diary of sorts. He'd been hurt and angry, even when he was young and too innocent to understand anything about the world. Back then, while he did get into scuffles with his brothers, more often than not, he'd run to his room to write in his notebooks. All his thoughts and feelings. Every dream or wish.

As if putting a piece of him on paper could take away the pain.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he slipped off the hammock and claimed one of the notebooks. Holding the ratty old thing gingerly in his large hands, he flipped it open to a random page and read the large sloppy text of a child's scrawl...

_[Journal Entry]_

_Leo did it again. Stupid Leo. I said a bad word, and he told on me. We're brothers. He's not supposed ta tattle. I didn't tattle on him when he lost Mikey in the tunnels. I just helped look for him. Guess I'm a better brother. But I won't rub that in just yet._   
_Gotta save it for a rainy day._   
_Sensei got so mad at me for cursing. He made me do ten whole flips! Right in front of everyone! It was... embara-emba- that word. It's a long one. Sounds kinda like 'em-bear-ass-sing. Donnie would be able to spell it._   
_The punishment made me so mad. No one else had to do flips. I hate flips. Especially if ya don't land right._   
_Mikey did flips with me though. He didn't have ta, but he did. He's the best flipper I've ever seen!_   
_And Donnie, he didn't laugh at me when I landed on my shell that one time._   
_Leo laughed though. Ugh!_   
_I blame Leo. Stupid Leo. Such a bastard. Prick. Cunt. Jackass. -Uh, better lay off the swearin' in case someone reads dis._   
_One day, I hope he gets in trouble and has ta do about TWENTY flips. And then, I'm gonna get to laugh at HIM!_   
_That would be real justice._   
_More importantly, I kinda hope Mikey wouldn't flip with Leo like he flipped with me. He probably would though._

_[End Journal Entry]_

In truth, Raphael didn't remember this incident, nor did he remember writing it. But he could imagine how it went down, how he felt... He could imagine himself younger, innocent, learning a dirty word and using it every chance he got. And he could imagine Leo- the perfect son- running off to tattle.

Frustrated and tired, Raphael turned the corner of the paper in a dog-ear fashion and tossed the notebook onto his hammock; he'd look over it later when he was in a better mood.

Once again, he looked around his room at all his possessions. Each one of them had been important at some point in his life. Each item, to an extent, defined who he'd become. And yet, it felt wrong to measure himself and his worth in objects.

He suddenly hated that stack of magazines.

In his head, he bitterly thought: _'I'm Raphael, and this identifies me.'_

"Fuck identity," he spat at nothing in particular, eyes roving around but not taking in anything. "I ain't gotta... -I can't..." Words failed him. His chest had that tight feeling again. Not knowing what else to do, he put his head in his hands and focused on simply breathing.

So caught up in his own little world of soothing hands and calm breaths, he didn't notice his door opening, nor someone stepping inside. He didn't notice a second presence until a soft voice spoke to him.

"Raph, sorry to bother you. I, uh, was heading to the garage. Thought I'd do a bit of work on the Shell Cycle. Care to help?"

Slowly pulling his hands away from his face, Raph turned to see Don standing in his doorway, expression mellow and a small smile in place.

Seeing his calm brother standing there with the open invitation, Raph nodded absently and stepped closer. "Thanks, Don," he whispered under his breath, stepping passed his brother and exiting his own room, heading for the garage.

...

* * *

_[Hours later]_

Time in the garage had been peaceful. There were no tears or awkward questions or forced conversations. There was mostly silence, the clinking of tools, or idle chat about how they might remodel the bike altogether.

"You're right, Donnie, I bet she'd look pretty good with a single-side swing-arm and a new tank."

Don smiled at hearing the endearing nickname fall so easily from his brother after such a stressful day. "And what about fuel injectors? A little turbo? Not really necessary, but we could-"

"Ummm, guys?" A third voice broke in, belonging to Michelangelo. "Sorry to bust up the bro-time, but... are we up for patrolling? Sensei said if we can have a civil family dinner, we can all go out tonight." He paused, gauging their pending reactions for a moment before adding: "I hear, there's trouble _a-Foot_!" he chuckled at his own joke and was glad to see Raph turn away to hide an amused grin of his own.

"Sure, Mikey," Raph said lightly, grabbing a sullied rag and wiping oil from his hands. "But," his eyes narrowed and his voice turned serious, "leave the pranks outta the equation. Leo and Don won't always be around to protect ya, and I'm about sick of yer shit."


	9. Ch8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH8**

* * *

Surprisingly, dinner went off without a hitch. There were scattered gaps of silence pilfered with the occasional exchange of words between Raph and Don. Leo stayed quiet, save for his well-exercised table manners. Mikey had tried to join Don and Raph's conversation more than once but was promptly ignored. Splinter watched, silent, observational as everyone dined on their choice of pizza -this time, the more traditional variety of peperoni and cheese- or Chinese takeout.

All things considered, dinner had been 'civil,' and the rat granted the four boys a night of freedom -or, at least a few hours to run around the city under the guise of night.

Geared up, weapons primed, the brothers had made their exit from the lair, through the sewers and up through a manhole onto the city streets. Lined up with their shells pressed against the wall, shadows cloaking them, they took in the familiar sights, sounds, and scents of the city around them.

Moving away from the wall and slipping from one veil of darkness to another, Leo gave the incentive. "Take to the roofs. We'll comb the city from above, then head for the docks. We'll finish up by hitting the darker alleys. And remember, Master Splinter said not to engage in battle unless it's absolutely necessary."

Scaling a fire escape in perfect stealth and harmony, they hit the rooftop one by one, falling in line to a rhythm as familiar a breathing.

"Alright. We stick together, work as a team. If we find ourselves in the position of needing to split up, I want you, Don, to go with Mikey. He's too easily distracted and I know you can help him maintain focus." Those were Leo's words, but what he meant, and what the other turtles actually heard was more along the lines of: _'You two stick together, and I'll take Raph. He's too unstable; we can't risk another psychotic episode.'_

Raphael grunted in distaste but kept his mouth shut. He needed this run too much to chance more trouble. He needed the fresh air and the ability to pretend that he had some form of freedom. Even if he had to act under Leonardo's leadership, Raphael was determined to cling to the dignity and pride that he had.

Regardless, the run commenced. Feet padding in perfect tandem across each roof, bodies wholly springing into the air with leaps and bounds and flips. With stealth as their crutch towards integrity, they moved in fluid harmony, each adhering to the occasional order of instruction, critique, or encouragement given by the blue-banded ninja.

"Mikey, try not to show off so much; you're going to burn out before we're done. Don, stop living in your head and focus on what you're doing; you almost didn't make that last jump. And Raph... good- good job." Leo had been keeping a close eye on each of his brothers, knowing perfectly well how each of them operated without really needing a visual. He knew it might be too soon to go out after the recent plague of tension, but he'd convinced his father and sensei to allow it. Under the false advertising of a chance to patrol, tonight would be more of a training run. He needed his whole team to get along and function like a single-minded organism, _not_ to be tearing into each other at every turn.

Leo had come to a conclusion and reasoned, if he could prove to Raphael that Don and Mikey were being watched equally, the stress would be alleviated. Likewise, he would make a personal effort to cut back on the criticism. As leader, it was imperative for him to pick his battles wisely.

"Mikey, slow down," Leo called, louder than he wanted, but the orange-banded turtle had sped ahead, too fast and too far for his liking. "Don, catch Mikey. Now."

Don blinked in surprise but did not refute. He angled his body to work with the wind resistance as he worked his arms and legs, muscles burning, to catch up with his youngest and fastest brother. It was no secret that Don was the slowest of them all, just barely slower than Raphael, but what Raph lacked in speed he gained in stamina, which was something Don himself had surprisingly little of. To catch Mikey was a nearly impossible feat to everyone except Leo. But, Don reasoned, Leo was dead set on keeping tabs on their hotheaded sibling.

With both Don and Mikey several rooftops away, Raph grabbed hold of Leo's arm and forced him to halt his advance. "What's yer problem, Leo?" He asked, voice carefully devoid of the pending build of emotion.

"What are you talking about, Raph? Mikey took off against my orders, and I sent Don to retrieve him. Don needs an exercise in speed and stamina anyways."

"That ain't what I'm gettin' at, Leo, and you know it. I needed to get out and get some fresh air, but you ain't taken yer eyes off me fer more than a few seconds. Like, you're afraid I'm gonna do somethin' stupid."

"Raph, do _you_ think you might do something stupid?" His gaze steady, Leo's voice was a careful blend of calm and sympathy.

Raph shrugged and turned away from Leo, avoiding the way those eyes bore into him. "I dunno. Maybe. But I ain't tryin' ta fuck up."

Leo opened his mouth to protest the curse word, but he stopped, holding back the complaint in favor remaining silent, hoping to encourage his red-banded brother to continue talking.

And continue, he did. Throwing his arms out in a frustrated gesture, he spoke, eyes turning up to stare at the moon in an apprehensive trance. "I don't try ta mess up around ya. It just happens. Ya guys don't even realize it, but I do. I'm different. Always been different. Always gonna be different."

"Raph, everyone's different," Leo assured, glad for his brother's open honesty.

"Not like dis, Leo," Raph said, voice dropping an octave. "Ya ain't gotta deal with this stuff. It's in here," he tapped a finger to his temple. "And it's in here," he moved the same hand to tap at his plastron, where his heart lay beneath. "Ya got the stress of being the oldest, bein' leader. Don's got all his smarts and patience and shit. And Mikey's just... the baby, the idiot, the knucklehead, the-"

"Raph, what's on your mind? Without insulting us, tell me what-"

"See?! There ya go! Once again, _you_ gotta be the one in control. Even when the problem is about _me_ , it's gotta be _you_ ta fix it! You're standin' there like an arrogant asshole, and yer tellin' _me_ how to tell _you_ what I'm feelin'!" With a cry of frustration, Raphael grabbed and tugged at his bandana tails before turning to face his eldest brother once more. "Don't do this ta me, bro. Don't try ta push me into this mould ya made fer me. I'm tellin' ya, I ain't gonna fit. If yer gonna be my leader, ya gotta deal with me just the way I am, because I ain't changin' and I ain't a damn puppet."

Their conversation, albeit one-sided, came to an abrupt halt as Donatello bounded over to them, panting profusely and doubling over with fatigue. "M-Mikey," he breathed.

Suddenly in full-leader mode, Leo stepped closer to Don; his talk with Raph forgotten, if not wholly abandoned. "What about Mikey? Talk to me, Don."

"M-M-Mikey's... over... near the... docks," the purple-banded turtle panted, struggling to take in more air. "F-Foot ninja... Lots. Got Mikey."

For a moment, Leo looked horrified, but he quickly forced the expression away and took on one of determination. His 'leader-look,' as he liked to think of it. "Alright. Raph and I will head over. Don, catch your breath and follow up."

"One p-problem, Leo" Don breathed, standing to full height and forcing air deeper into his lungs.

"What's that?" Leo asked, eyes shifting to look in the direction of the docks.

"Raph already took off," Don said, voice quieter than he meant it to be.

Leo bit back a groan of irritation before giving a proper response. "Alright, Don. New plan. You and I will head to the docks together. Our first priority has to be team safety. Second to that is stealth. Now, let's move."

Without another word, the two of them ran together, Leo keeping at Don's pace to avoid the chance of getting separated. Despite Don's fatigue, his own worry and determination allowed him an impressive speed. Their trip to the docks was silent and purposeful, and what they found was exactly like they expected.

Michelangelo's prone form was unconscious among a series of crates, guarded by no less than a dozen Foot. Meanwhile, Raphael was thick in the action, wielding a sai in each hand and fending off another group of black-clad ninja in an attempt to rescue the orange-banded sibling.

At Leo's signal, both he and Don leapt from their perch, tucked into a flip and landed among the fray. Weapons brandished, they joined Raphael in the fight.

"What the fuck are ya doin'? Go aftah Mikey," Raph all but roared as he deflected an oncoming sword. "Leave these guys ta me and save Mikey!" He shouted, giving a swift kick to one assailant and stabbing another in the throat with his own blades.

In that moment, time froze.

The fight ceased.

Everyone, enemy and comrade alike looked over to see Raphael blade-deep in throat-blood. The blood, thick and syrupy, gushed from the fresh wound and ran down his emerald green hands. It was impossible for the puncture to be anything but fatal.

"Raph what have you-" Leo began, but Don silenced him with a hand over his mouth. Both had wide eyes set on the scene before them as they watched Raphael slowly withdraw the bloodied weapon; the injured ninja crumpled to the ground.

Blood literally on his hands, Raph simply stared. While he'd been in countless battles and put many people in the hospital, to his knowledge he'd never actually killed anybody. He tried to take a moment to digest, to comprehend his actions, but before he could even begin to process just what he had done, another attack was aimed at him, forcing his mind and body back into the brawl. Quick decisions, rash actions, and no real comprehension. Fighting was easy, thinking was not. And Raphael focused on that fact.

Neither Leo nor Don could be sure of how to handle what had transpired. Don slowly lowered his hand from Leo's mouth and Leo whispered: "Let's worry about Mikey first."

And with a hesitant nod, Don agreed.

Foot ninja were piled around Michelangelo, almost guarding.

Katana blades at the ready, Leo rushed at them with Don right behind him, wielding his bo. Leo jumped and flipped, landing dead-center of the group next to his fallen brother, shielding the younger turtle and countering every attack that came his way. Some part of his mind registered that he was being purely defensive for a reason, but he refused to dwell on it just yet.

Swinging is bo with utmost precision, Don swept at the ninja horde, knocking their legs out from under them before delivering accurate whacks to their temples, just hard enough to render them unconscious. Between himself and Leo, the Foot were systematically dealt with and they were able to stake their claim on Mikey. They got on either side of their youngest brother and picked him up with dual effort.

"We need to get back to the lair," Leo said to Don, then turned his attention back to his red-banded sibling before shouting: "Raph! Fend them off and retreat!"

Raph slammed his foot into the chest of another ninja, knocking him back. " _Retreat_?!" He was mortified at the very idea. Aggression burned through him. "I'm not fuckin' _weak_ ; I can take 'em, Leo! Just get Mikey outta here!"

"Raph," Leo said evenly, "this is a direct order."

"Yeah? Well, I already killed one ninja tonight, Leo. Let's not make it two!" Raph ground out angrily, his blood pulsing hotly as he launched yet another attack.

Puzzled, Leo just stood there, helping to support Michelangelo.

Frowning, Don gave a sidelong glance at his blue-banded brother. "It's your call, Leo. You're the leader."

"Don, get Mikey home. I'll get Raph."

As Donatello took on the full weight of the youngest turtle and ducked into the shadows, Leo moved into an offensive stance, his katana tight in his grip.

None of the turtles noticed the lone figure above, watching in earnest as his armor glinted in the moonlight.


	10. Ch9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.  
> Author's Notes: In this chapter, you'll almost immediately see the name Danny Pennington. Danny is a young Foot rookie from the original 1990's live-action TMNT film.

**CH9**

* * *

His name was Danny Pennington, Raph had come to find out; that was the name of the young man whose life he took. A seventeen year old boy guilty of truancy and thievery and nothing more. He had no maternal figure, and his father was too caught up in work to be much of a parent. He fell into the wrong crowd, joined the Foot, and didn't get much further in life. And now, thanks to Raph, there would be no 'Next Chapter' for the young man. There would be no sequel, no bright future or happy ending. All thanks to the hasty thrust of a weapon.

_Danny Pennington._

The name would haunt Raphael for an indefinite amount of time. The term ' _forever_ ' comes to mind, but it sounds so bleak in this context. So Raphael ignored it altogether, feigning forgetfulness to the best of his ability, but at the same time he was all too aware of the fact that he's too old to play pretend. He's too grown to believe in miracles and good graces. He's too mature to believe, for even a second, that his life hasn't just changed majorly.

But he couldn't dwell on the subject, not when he was bare-knuckle deep in the Shredder's armor. His knuckles battered and bruised, the flesh splitting and smearing his own red essence along those silver plates. If he looked, he might see his reflection in the baited untainted bits of silver, but instead, he concentrated on forcing his anger into each hit, painting that surface with the reddest red he possibly could.

And to think, that used to be his favorite color... Now, if the color could be personified, he'd _kill it_ , and he wouldn't even feel guilty.

How he got into this mess, fighting -if one could even call it a fight- alone against his clan's greatest enemy, he could only vaguely recount.

Not too long ago, it had been the four of them. Mikey injured and unconscious, Raph amidst the brawl, Leo and Don joining in. As far as Raph knew, Mikey and been rescued and Don carted him off, presumably to the lair; and Leo -the self-righteous bastard- had stayed by his side to fight.

Raph hadn't meant to go against orders, not really. He was still very sore over the recent events back home, and then, having accidentally _killed_ someone -the kid named Danny Pennington- his nerves were shot; his insides ached, and part of him wished that his external pains would be enough to take his mind off it. He needed physical release, and the best way he knew to get that release was to fight, to punch, to kick, to put down anyone or anything that got in his path of destruction. To simply destroy. To hurt anything that had the potential to hurt with the exception of himself simply because of his own pragmatic views.

He'd fight tooth and nail if it meant burning up his anger instead of turning it on his family.

He held no regrets about staying to fight the Foot, regardless to how numerous they'd been. He'd wanted Leo to go back to the lair with Don and Mikey, but as long as his brothers made it back alright, everything would be fine, surely. Everyone would be safe, and they could rebuild the wreckage that had been their team. That was the idea. Everyone was supposed to be fine; everything was supposed to be fixable. Raph knew Leo could hold his own in battle; in fact, he counted on it. What Raph _hadn't_ counted on, was Leo's sudden desire to become a shield.

The fight was caught between climax and conclusion when a more experienced ninja drew out a sharp dozen _senbon_ \- long thin needles pointed at both ends, not unlike those used for acupuncture; in the blink of an eye, the senbon were launched in the direction of the turtles. While Raph jabbed his elbow into the side of one adversary and followed the attack with a sweep of his leg to drop the ninja, Leo saw the spray of needles and instinctively moved to protect and shield his red-banded brother. Facing away from the needles and towards his brother, many of the senbon hit and bounced off his carapace, but... a few of them hit his shoulders and neck, stinting his nerves and causing his arms to become temporarily paralyzed.

_Dead limbs_ , is what shinobi call it.

Catching an oddly moving blur of green in his peripheral vision, Raphael turned to see Leo's twin swords drop as his arms fell limply to his sides.

Leo's eyes grew wide as the harrowing factors of their predicament sank in. His arms, dead. Weapons, lost and unusable. Legs, a fair target. One brother injured and with him, another was gone. His last brother caught up in a conflict that showed no signs of ending.

"Leo! Oh, _fuuuck_!" Raph shouted, his attention stolen from the fray and locked onto his eldest brother. He jabbed a sloppy attack that just barely hit its mark and dropped another foe. With affliction nipping at his insides and forcing dread throughout his entirety, Raph thought quickly on how to help his brother, fast. The ninja were too plentiful, and his brother was at an unfortunate disadvantage that could have crippling effects. Seeing only one option in sight, he bit his lip, swallowed his pride, and did the one thing he never thought he'd do. Knocking one last foe away, he raised both sai-weilding hands high, opened his mouth wide and called out: "I yield, dammit, _I yield!_ " Tossing his weapons away and out of reach, he kept his hands in plain sight: a sign of surrender.

Once again, the fight ceased. Every conscious Foot looked in Raph's direction, unsure of how to proceed. They bobbed their heads in question and many lowered their weapons.

Growling at those who kept their tools of brutality poised, Raph elaborated. "You're supposed ta be fuckin' ninja! Where's yer honor?! I ain't got much of that myself, but I won't strike an unready opponent who _can't_ or _won't_ fight! I yield. You win. Now, fuck off!"

"Raph," Leo spoke, an involuntary twitch forcing its way through his shoulder and neck as his stinted nerves gave way to spasm and hitch. "What are you-"

"Let me handle this, Leo," Raph said bluntly. "Yer legs are holdin' up, right? They're still workin'. Walk yer ass home. I'll cover ya if I have ta. Now, go."

Leo tried to shake his head, but the nerves in his neck protested and he twitched again. "No... No turtle left behind, Raph."

Raph chuckled bitterly and shook his head forcefully, almost mocking Leo's inability to make the simple motion. "Go home, Leader-boy. Tell Mikey I'm sorry. Tell Donnie that the bike's fine and doesn't need the turbo. Tell Splinta... that... I... I kinda hope he goes bald one day because that'd be funny as shit."

"Raph, we're brothers. Come home and tell everyone yourself, okay? We can-" Leo tried again, his voice earnest and intentions genuine, but Raph refused to heed his words or even let him finish his thought.

"Get the fuck outta here, _Leonardo_! Honestly, I don't want ya here! If I have ta tell ya again, I'll make sure neither of us make it home!"

Leo's world went black after that; the last thing he saw was a green two-toed foot making its way towards his head. He dropped to the ground.

Unconscious.

The Foot all stood around, occasionally glancing at one another, still unsure of how to proceed and waiting for some sort of order or command.

Sliding his feet apart, widening his stance and crossing his arms over his plastron, Raphael spoke again, eyes narrow and slightly blurring around the edges as he fought to remain in control. "Alright, Footies, listen up. Y'know damn well that I can kick yer asses all by myself. But I'm feelin' mighty generous. My brother goes free without further harm, and I'll spare ya some of my precious time. Got it?" He paused, closing his eyes and tilting his head up before bellowing loudly: "Ya hear me, Can-Opener?! I know yer up there, but the party's down here! Ya waitin' fer an invitation or somethin'?"

Not a moment later, the Shredder himself dropped down in front of Raphael. He stood at full height, looking every bit as dangerous as a predator that had cornered its prey "Very good, Raphael," he said, his tone demeaning, as if talking to a child. "I do wish to speak with you, though I hoped it would have been under better circumstances."

"Yeah, yeah, Tin-Man. Comin' ta ask the Wizard fer a heart, right? Haven't ya ripped enough outta innocent people on yer own?" Raphael spoke with a surprisingly light tone, his arms uncrossing and resting at his sides.

Narrowing his eyes in distaste at the reference and implication, Shredder gave a quip of his own. "Raphael, _you_ have shed more blood than I have tonight, unless I've mistaken."

At the horrific reminder of his own heinous deed, a burst of freezing cold erupted from within Raphael, steeling him in both thought and motion. He could do little more than stare at the man before him. For a moment, he could only focus on the dry crusted blood on his skin; he became hyper-aware of the coppery scent that lingered.

He missed the presence of his sais, but he was loathe to think of them and what they were truly capable of.

Turning to look at a higher-ranking Foot ninja, Shredder gestured to Leonardo and barked an order. "See that he is delivered to Ms O'Neil. _Unharmed_. I have... business to attend."

With a respectful bow and the burst of several smokescreen pellets, every conscious and salvageable black-clan ninja vanished, the blue-banded turtle disappearing with them.

Once they were gone and the smoke had cleared, Shredder regarded the remaining turtle. "Raphael, if you will-"

"I just wanted my bro's safety. I ain't got no business with you."

"Oh, Raphael, but you do." Shredder grinned behind his custom menpo facemask and pointed to a body that had been left behind: a ninja with a gashed-open throat; the blood looked almost black with the lack of adequate lighting. "His name... was Danny Pennington. His father's name is Charles."

Raph visibly paled, looking sick. Killing a nameless and faceless Foot soldier was one thing, but knowing that there was a _person_ beneath that mask, with thoughts, feelings, a family and goals... It was a whole other ballgame for Raphael. It somehow made things _worse_.

"Tell me, Raphael, what do you think Charles will do? Do you think he'll grieve the loss of his son? Maybe he won't even know, if no one tells him and the body isn't found... Maybe he'll assume Danny has run away. But, no matter what happens to poor Charles, you will always know that _you_ have spilled blood and taken a life. No matter how many good deeds you do, Raphael, you will always know that you have _murdered_ someone in cold blood."

"It wasn't like that," Raph said, voice low and tone uncertain.

"Wasn't it?" Shredder countered. "From what I could see -and I saw a lot, mind you- it appeared that you sliced his throat, watched him die, and turned away as if nothing had happened."

"I would have mourned-"

"You would have mourned the death of a common pickpocket? Isn't that noble of you, considering how you were his executioner..." Shredder's words were a taunt, a tease, and a gamble that paid off with the red-banded ninja's rising grief. "Tell me, Raphael, was it worth it? The Foot did not come looking for trouble tonight. They were simply at the docks discussing an upcoming charity event when young Michelangelo happened upon the scene. What choice did they have but to attack an intruding ninja?"

Raphael shook his head, words failing him. But he tried anyways. "The Foot don't do charity work," he said gruffly. "Maybe ya steal from orphans or somethin', but that's about it."

"Oh, Raphael... You get so caught up in calling me names that you forget: I _do_ have a name that does not pertain to _Shredder_. As Oroku Saki, I have a business and image to uphold. Unable to do all the charity myself, I often employ the younger, more naive Foot members to clean up Central Park, to take hot meals to the elderly or homeless, to-"

"I don't wanna hear it!" Raph shouted, suddenly embittered and full of rage. "Yer not some saint, and I ain't gonna treat ya like one!"

"By all means, Raphael, if you want to fight, I won't stop you. Come at me. Make it worthwhile. After all, this is all you're good for, isn't it?" He chuckled darkly, his eyes glinting maliciously. "Come on. Let's see this fantastic rage-induced energy you have."

And so provoked, weaponless and angered, Raphael lunged and slammed his fist into the unforgiving steel chest plate. Knuckle-deep in the Shredder's armor, he swung his other fist. He heard more than felt the clamor of his attacks as he flooded his enemy, blow by blow. With each hit, the force behind his fists became more violent and less coordinated. He distantly noted that his knuckles were bruising and the flesh was splitting. He could see so much red slipping along that cold metal... His hands, tools for destruction and chaos, somehow turned into a gorey imitation of an artist's paintbrush.

Then, one miscalculated cuff veered off course slightly and fell prey to a blade on the shoulder armor, slicing through his emerald skin and causing him to draw back and cradle the wounded appendage to his plastron.

He'd felt the slice vividly and it made his breath hitch. He took a moment to compose himself as blood flowed from the open wound.

"You finished?" Shredder asked, his tone unreadable. "If you've had your fill, allow me to retaliate." He reared his own fist in preparation to strike.

Raphael braced himself, arms crossed in front of his face in an _X_ formation. There was no point in running.

He waited and waited, but no blow came.

Instead, Shredder swiped the blade of his gauntlet with careful precision, slicing through the thin red fabric of the turtle's mask and simply watching it fall from place.

When Raphael opened his eyes, arms lowering, he felt suddenly bare, exposed. He blinked, confused, and raised a hand to touch his face where the mask had been, finding it devoid the familiar article. He looked to his foe questionably, eyes wide and seemingly more innocent than they should have been.

Stepping back, Shredder explained: "You did something tonight. Against everything you've ever been taught, you took the life of an innocent. And I wanted to see under that mask... to know what was underneath. I wanted to see if you looked like the same monster your actions have shown you to be."

If possible, Raphael was more afraid of this man's words than any physical damage he could implement. He visibly flinched at the term _monster_.

Staring into the unmasked face of the teen with appraising eyes, Shredder lifted his own hands and placed them on either side of his kabuto, holding them there for a suspenseful moment. Then, he slid one hand to his facemask and unhooked the menpo. Removing that, the helm followed and Shredder held the heavy metal pieces in either hand, his face fully revealed. It was thin, with powerful cheekbones and a jaw to match, high brows and narrow eyes. Intimidating, but fleshy and mortal. Scarred, but _human_.

Raphael stared at the unmasked wonder of a man, his confusion only growing. He'd imagined this moment so differently in his head, in his dreams and nightmares. The unmasking of Shredder. He imagined a monster so hideous that he always woke up to replace the actual face with a blur. A thumbprint smudge over an otherwise spotless masterpiece. Now, seeing that face in reality for what it truly was, he didn't know if he should be relieved or horrified. Or maybe he was a little disappointed.

Thankfully, this armored foe seemed to be in the habit of articulating his means -either that, or he just loved the sound of his own voice. However, hearing him speak and actually _seeing_ it was two different things. It was odd, to see a mouth behind the metal casing. A mouth without jagged teeth or a fork tongue... And a voice, unfiltered, that sounded completely normal. "Now, Raphael, I've finally seen beneath your mask, so I thought I'd return the favor. I've seen your hidden monster, and you've seen mine. Because, really, aren't we all ugly... underneath?"

Hurt, angry, guilty, confused, but mostly uncomprehending, Raphael averted his gaze and scuffed his foot against the ground. "Hey... Can't we just fight, knock each other around, then part ways and do it again later? Ain't that what we do? Ain't it supposed ta be this never-ending cycle where no one dies and everything just keeps goin'?"

Shredder quirked a brow, the expression strange on his new face. In truth, he'd been surprised by the naivete in the turtle's words, the sincere desire to just cycle through combat without any fatality. But he pushed the thought away to be contemplated another day, and for now he pressed on with his own agenda. "Now, be honest, Raphael. Am I really your enemy? Or am I the rat's enemy?"

Scuffing his foot a few more times before forcing himself to stop the childish habit, Raph looked up to meet the Shredder's gaze. "Ain't it the same thing? Master Splinta taught me everythin' I know."

"Did he teach you to _kill_ , Raphael? I doubt it. And yet, you know how to do that, don't you? Are you willing to take on his vendetta when it does not concern you? It seems unfair and selfish... for him to use you like that, as if you're just another weapon. A tool. Something destructive he can employ."

Raphael clenched his fists and felt the blood run down his sliced and damaged one. " _Look_! If ya ain't gonna attack, I won't attack ya. If we ain't gonna fight, we got no business together. If ya got somethin' ta say, just say it already. I'm done here."

"A mutant of few words, I see," Shredder mused. "Then I'll be quick to leave you with this thought. There is right and wrong in the world. Black and white. But there are also many grey areas that are unaccounted for. Because, Raphael, there are people who do good things with bad consequences, and there are people who do bad things with good intentions. This grey area is vast and complicated; it might as well be a labyrinth. So, suffice to say, you cannot correctly label someone as wholly good or evil."

Stubborn to the bone, Raphael shook his head to dislodge the words that had been forced into his mind. "No," he defied. "You're always gonna be the bad guy, and we're always gonna be the good guys. It's just that simple."

"I needn't remind you of your actions tonight, nor the fact that anyone human would run and cower at the mere sight of you. However, I will leave you alone with your thoughts. And, when you need me- _because you will_ \- you'll find me."

"Just why the fuck would I need a prick like you?" Raph spat, but his heart wasn't in it; his fire was burning out; he was too emotionally drained. The fight was leaving him, adrenaline gone, heart too heavy.

With a shrug, Shredder pulled his helm on and snapped his menpo mask back in place before speaking, his voice once again filtered through metal. "Because, Raphael, unlike your family, I don't see you as a mindless beast or a liability. I see you for your strength and pride. And... something tells me that you'll want me to help you arrange an apology for Mr Charles Pennington. After all, little Danny won't be coming home tonight, will he?" Shredder turned away. But he made no further move to leave. He simply looked skywards for a prolonged moment before speaking one last time. "Your family will never forgive or forget what you have done tonight, Raphael. But I already have... though, I believe a formal apology is in order. Tomorrow night, on the roof of the little corner shop. Come alone. Pay your respects."

With those final words, the armored man approached Danny's chilled corpse and carefully pulled the limp body into his arms; then he simply walked away.

Raphael watched, conflicted, head spinning, mind reeling, guilt becoming an all-consuming force.

Suddenly, he wasn't so sure that going home would be a good idea... His family was already on edge with him; he couldn't imagine things would be any easier after what he'd done.

His mask forgotten and sais abandoned with their rust-red stains, he slipped into the shadows and took leave. He had to get to April's; he needed to check on Leo. He'd worry about the consequences of his actions later.


	11. Ch 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: Slight religious tones mentioned in this chapter. This does not convey any personal opinion or belief. I make no effort to suggest conversion, existence, or denial of existence in terms of any religious factor out there. Please read with maturity.  
> Also, I operate under the pretense that both April and Casey are adults.

**CH 10**

* * *

The morning heat hit him in waves, scorching his eyes. The night before was a blur of events that fluctuated in its clarity. As far as emotions were concerned, he was back to feeling empty and drained, though that wasn't the only kind of emptiness he registered; his stomach growled in protest to his lack of nutrition but he ignored the sensation and sound.

Forcing his eyes to take in the light of day, he stared off into the many hues of sunrise from his spot in the alley behind a grouping of overturned garbage cans that hid him from the initial view of passersby. With an awed breath, he regarded the colorful stretches of cloud and sky, the sun, the brightness, and the heat... It was a luxury he sparsely attained. On a whim, he reached a hand out, as if to touch the golden rays. His own dark emerald flesh became a silhouette against the morning glow.

Moving that hand away from the sun and closer to his face to rub at his bleary eyes, he was reminded again of the mask he lacked, the dry crust of blood scabbed over his hands... Everything flooded back in flashes, like movie fragments, though he recalled it all with a comfortably numb detachment. He knew he should be in a state of panic and apprehension, working into a frenzied uproar of some sort, but he just couldn't find it in himself to care. He was too tired; too warm in the sun's embrace to complain. If he tried, he could probably fall back to sleep and remain that way for a good long time.

And he considered it.

Blissful sleep, where nothing seemed real, and nothing mattered. And anything horrific would come to an end the moment he woke up. Sleep was a godsend. And reality was the true nightmare, with its only release being death.

He suddenly envied the comatose. Forever dreaming, forever escaping reality and never facing their demons -not for real, anyways.

 _Sleep_ would be the name of his own personal Angel of Mercy, if he believed in either angels or mercy. The million dollar question: if angels existed, would they be inclined to watch over those who were decisively inhuman? Would their merciful hands reach a tender touch towards an accidentally corrupted mutant? Would a mutant's soul- assuming they have souls- be worth saving?

For a moment, Raphael entertained the idea of religion. Angels, demons, heaven and hell. And somewhere among it all, a true being of all-power known as God. Provided that it was all legit and existing, Raphael hoped there was no soul within him, because there would be no place in heaven for him, and he was admittedly abhorred by the alternative.

Like church for an atheist, there was no point in dwelling on something he couldn't understand; so he put aside all thoughts on the matter and went back to his original thought- something much more simple and comprehensible.

Sleep.

With a soft grunt, he shifted his position to get more comfortable as his eyelids drew down. But the moment his eyes slipped closed, he was greeted with flashes.

Images.

Real life comics.

Live-action.

Motion picture.

Those flashes... haunting him, driving him through an empty hall of decorative madness...

A new kind of horror story with an unwritten ending.

Eyes closed and rest pending, that story played on a continual loop.

_Leo, foolishly acting as a shield._   
_Himself, yielding to the enemy._   
_Leo being taken away._   
_His encounter with Shredder, the exchange of faces after the removal of literal -and possibly figurative- masks._   
_The trip to April's..._

_..._

* * *

_[The Previous Night, Shortly After Shredder's Departure]_

The trip to April's had been full of soul-crushing guilt; the whole way there, he felt as if his heart had dropped into his stomach and frozen over; it was so cold that it actually burned, hot and scorching, frostbitten. The name _Danny Pennington_ still rang in his ears, etched into his brain: a haunting misery that he could neither avoid nor escape.

He could recall with horrific clarity the resistance -or lack thereof- between his sai and that throat... like poking a spoon through a glob of jello.

He suddenly _hated_ jello _._

He had tried to focus his thoughts on something else. Perhaps his family, but it did little good. Apprehension gave way as he considered how his paternal figure might react, and how his brothers' opinions of him might change, after all... with his violent streak and lack of control, they'd all considered the possibility of him going too far in a fit of rage. Now that it had finally happened, would they be afraid of him?

 _'Can they ever trust me again?'_ he couldn't help questioning. _'Master Splinta's gonna be so pissed. But hey, he's still got Leo. Good ol' Fearless. The golden boy, the perfect son. What's he need me for? Why would any of 'em need me? They got Splinta's good grace. They got a leader. They got a brain and a joker... Where would I even begin to fit inta the mix? Sometimes, it's like I'm only there out of circumstance. Fate, or whatever. Simply because we share the whole 'mutated turtle' bit. If we had other options... things might be... -No. Can't think like that. I ain't gonna think like that.'  
_

His expression turned sour as he moved through the shadows of night, finding solace in the familiar darkness, approaching his destination where he hoped to find Leo. At April's apartment, unharmed, hopefully, as Shredder had said.

But how much truth could be expected of the man he'd been taught to despise and trained to fight against? How much faith could he put into the Shredder's words?

_'Please be alright, Leo; ya gotta be. Dammit, there's already blood on my hands, not just mine either. I stole a fuckin' life. And fer what? Mikey wasn't in any real danger; he was just unconscious... We were all there... We were all there, but I was the only one who- My sai just slipped.'_

He repressed an agonized groan as realization set in.

_'No... it didn't. I fucked up, bottom line. I didn't just kill a Foot soldier. I took the life of a kid, with a dad, and a GPA -he was still in school. The kid may have been a thief, but I'm the one that stole his future. Some good guy I turned out ta be...'_

He grit his teeth and shuddered at the thought as he slipped behind the apartment complex, unseen in the way that can only be achieved through training and a mastery of ninja stealth.

In the dead of night, the city that never sleeps sure sounded a lot more quiet than he was used to. And while he never was one to mind the peace and quiet, he found the sudden serenity to be rather irksome; the way it grated on his nerves, it was pretty damn annoying. The city wasn't meant to be at rest.

He scuffed his feet simply to hear the sound, to hear something other than the daunting misery that sought purchase over his code of morale.

Moving closer to the building and hopping up to stand on top of a garbage can, he'd grabbed onto a drainage pipe and hobbled up far enough to reach a window ledge. Resting an arm along the ledge, he peered through the lavender curtains and into April's apartment.

The apartment was as practical as it could be. Fairly small but with three bedrooms. Despite the fact that she lived alone, it wasn't uncommon for her to have guests of the mutant-variety, and she always made sure they felt at home- minus the sewer smells, of course.

He almost smiled at the memories. Himself and his brothers littered around the living room in front of the television, half a dozen pizza boxes scattered. Splinter pretending to meditate while he kept one eye open to watch an infomercial for some improved version of a dust-buster. Casey, the big oaf, walking in and sitting nearby with a bottle of beer before taunting: "I'd offer ya some, but yer underage, pal. Or, do ya measure life in turtle years? Like, cat and dog years? Ah, screw it! I'll sneak ya a sip later..."

He never did get that sip... but the memory was there, stirred up by simply looking into a window.

April O'Neil, what a gal. One of their only links to true humanity...

The sentiment was there and always would be, but _she_ was not the subject of Raphael's impromptu visit.

Peering in, he took in the scene, April pacing back and forth with a phone clutched between her hand and her ear; her lips were moving rapidly as she appeared to stumble over her words, expression frantic. A glance at the couch, and Leo could be seen, plastron-down and head turned to the side; he was breathing steadily and the needles had been removed. Aside from the occasional twitch, he looked perfectly at ease.

April would take care of Leo, and she was probably talking to Don on the phone.

Seeing this and deciding that Leo would be alright, Raphael had left, lurked around aimlessly from street to street before finally settling into an alley on the industrial side of town for a few hours of rest. After all, he wasn't sure if he could go home and bear the look of shame and disgust that would surely be directed towards him.

If he had a dream that night, it wasn't something he could recall...

...

* * *

_[Morning, Back at the Lair]_

Michelangelo sat at the table with a deep frown on his face, the expression nearly foreign on the usually happy-go-lucky turtle. He'd slept through most of the night with Splinter at his side, and now that he was awake, his mind cycled through everything he knew. But all he could really conclude was, his family didn't feel much like a family anymore. He ran a finger over a familiar blue rubber roach, as if petting it. He knew his brother Don had walked into the kitchen a whole minute ago, but there was no point in offering a cheerful greeting when he didn't have the spunk to make it convincing. So, he stayed quiet, petting his rubber roach and sighing heavily.

"Something on your mind, Mikey?" Donatello tried, pouring himself a cup of coffee, as per his usual routine. When his orange-banded brother gave no response, he tried again. "How's your head this morning?" He glanced over, his focus drawn to the large nasty bruise that the younger turtle had obtained via Raph-rage. The swelling had gone down but the color was still unpleasant. "What about-"

"The Foot didn't really hurt me, Donnie, if that's what you're about to ask. It was a clean blow that knocked me out. I didn't even get a concussion." He scowled; the expression seemed unnatural. "If Raph hadn't-"

"Mikey, how can you blame this on _Raph_?"

Giving a sharp turn, so abrupt that his chair screeched against the floor, Mikey glared darkly at his purple-clad sibling. "Got any better ideas, Einstein?" The bite in his voice was strange, but he held his tone, refusing to let go. "Leo's gone. Raph's gone. Sensei might as well be gone. And you're just standing there like everything's fine, and you're expecting me to crap out rainbows!" Pinching the blue roach between his fingers, he pulled his arm back and chucked the bug forward; it bounced off the wall and landed somewhere he didn't bother to locate. Taking a deep breath, he got up from his chair, careless to the fact that his jolt had knocked the chair over. "I'll be in my room. Don't bother me until I have a family again." With that, the orange-banded turtle stomped off, making as much racket as he possibly could on the way to his room.

Don stood there, his handle-less cup cradled between his hands and a forlorn expression slipping into place. He looked down, catching his reflection in the dark liquid. Closing his eyes, he whispered -only bothering to speak aloud for the sake of hearing something comforting- "No matter what, I'll fix things. That's what I do. I fix things. The toaster, the remote, the microwave, this family... Whatever trouble you're getting into, Raph, I just hope you know that you're not alone." Setting his cup, half full- because he refused to think of it as half empty- on the counter, he moved to pick up a phone.

Dialing a number he'd long since memorized, he pressed the phone to the side of his head and listened to the telltale sound of ringing.

"I can't do this alone," he said, mostly to himself. "First, I need Leo. Leo's the leader, the play-maker."

Just then, the phone clicked, signalling that someone had picked up on the other end.

_"Hello?"_

"Hey, April, it's Don."

_"Donnie? You're calling about-"_

"Yes, I'm calling about Leo. How is he? I know you called last night, but I couldn't come; I had to keep an eye on Mikey, and you said Leo was alright..."

_"He woke up a little while ago. He's starting to get feeling back in his arms, but he's still twitching."_

Don smiled, he couldn't help it. With so much going wrong, it was nice to hear a friendly voice, and even nicer to know that Leo was going to be fine. "That's good. Without being there to check on him personally, I can't say for sure, but the effects of those needles shouldn't last much longer. Just make sure he eats and gets plenty of fluids; we don't need him dehydrating."

_"I'll take care of him, Donnie."_

"Thanks, April."

_"And don't worry, I'll make sure he gets back to the lair tonight."_

"You're a life saver, sometimes literally." He smiled, but that smile faded almost as quickly as it had appeared. "April?"

_"Yes, Donnie?"_

"If- If you see Raph, tell him... that he can come home."


	12. Ch 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH 11**

* * *

It was well passed noon when Raphael had woken up from his nap, stirred awake by the pull of his stomach- something akin to what a bear might feel after a long hibernation: the need to sate hunger. Eyes open and looking around to recollect his whereabouts, he was once again reminded of the cosmic shift in his life that landed him a night in the alley.

If possible, despite his rest, he felt even more exhausted than he had earlier. His muscles were stiff, his body sore.

The sun had shifted positions and was no longer hitting him in the face like a high-beam and, he registered in a muted sense, he was grateful.

_'Keep spinnin', world,'_ he thought tiredly. _'Ya ain't gotta stop turnin' for this turtle. And yer apparently not gonna open up and spill rain down to accommodate my mood.'_

Still vaguely detached, he retained enough sense not to go parading around for public eyes in the daylight. He was empty, not stupid. He was still a walking, talking freak of nature: a mutant. He was critically aware of the bio-chemical structure of his DNA, as his genius brother had harped on far too many times for it not to be ingrained in his memory.

His genius brother, one of three that he had. For the moment, he thought about them indifferently, in a way that could only mean he was either depressed or completely lost, or maybe some more complicated and twisted form of both that he couldn't bother to deliberate. Or maybe he was just really, really tired...

He considered Leonardo. Perfect and structured, no matter the pressure. The group leader and teacher's pet to their shared sensei. With his respectable katana. His blue mask. His ridiculous need to be in control of everything.

He considered Donatello. Insightful, careful and precise in all he did. The patient engineer with an uncanny ability to understand. With his defensive bo staff. His purple mask. His selfless desire to put everyone and everything above his own well-being.

He considered Michelangelo. Graceful and energetic, quick to smile regardless of tension. The impatient joker who boasted and barbed and relied far more on words than his natural athletic abilities. With his wicked nunchaku. His orange mask. His infectiously good nature that knew nothing of mortality.

Lastly, he considered himself.

But his thoughts died after the name _Raphael_ had come to mind.

His mind drew blank on positive qualities, and he didn't want to put energy towards more negativity. So, he stopped thinking altogether.

If his brain had an off switch, he switched it off. Powered down. Siphoned the fuel.

As if injured and needing to recuperate, he allowed his mind to rest.

He considered meditation but rebelled against the idea almost instantly. He wanted to _escape_ his thoughts, not swim in them.

His stomach growled, and he placed a hand over his abdomen, feeling the slight vibrations.

_'Looks like the tank is empty,'_ he mused, but there was no mirth to be found. Forcing himself up, muscles protesting, he looked around to better gauge his surroundings.

There was a construction site not far; he could hear the harblar and humdrum in the distance, workers lazing about by their bulky machinery. There were rundown shacks to his east -a clutter of ghetto-esque homes with less than regal occupants.

The factory-world would be in full swing anytime; this time of year, it always ran late. At this hour, from his position, he could scarcely see the black smoke hovering in the sky like a bad omen. That smoke cloud would only continue to grow... and he didn't want to sit and watch.

Steady on his feet, despite his protesting muscles and creaking joints, he stretched languidly and felt the relieving sensation of several bones popping.

"Not much I can do til nighttime," he said gruffly, "but I ain't gonna starve. I just need ta hide the whole green-skin and shellback thing." Twitching his fingers and feeling the crusted blood, he frowned before adding aloud: "And I gotta do somethin' 'bout this before it gets infected." With a deep breath, he crouched down, muscles coiling, body hinged, and sprung up, executing a simple flip and landing on the other side of the bulwark of trash cans. Then he tore away from the mouth of the alley, rewarded with the sight of limited activity in this part of town.

Ducking behind a lemon of a car, senses peeled, he waited for self-assurance before taking a quick tumble and stopping behind a van. Squatting comfortably, he rolled his shoulders to work out the last of his kinks. With keen amber eyes, he looked around to map out his route.

_'Hit the construction site first. Less people. Then head east. See, Leo? Plannin' shit ain't hard. Don't see why yer always such a prude about it.'_

Quickly rushing forward and taking cover behind a stack of metal beams for pending highrises, his eyes widened marginally as he came came face to face with a rather stout construction worker.

_'Ah, so that's why... Damn!'_

...

* * *

_[April's Apartment]_

Leo sat upright on the couch, his back as straight as an arrow and shoulders tense. He curled his toes against the carpet fibers under his feet. Eyes narrow and jaw set, he placed his hands on each knee and squeezed firmly to relieve the sense of trepidation.

He'd recovered almost all feeling and mobility in his arms and his twitches were slight and infrequent.

While he was physically in April's living room, his mind was wholly focused on his family.

Even lost in his thoughts, he was aware of the redhead's presence before she even entered the room; his training and dedication assured that. So he was less than surprised when she offered him a cup of tea and a reassuring smile before speaking.

"Leo, can I get you anything else?"

The blue-banded turtle politely declined further hospitality and gave a respectful bow of his head. "Thank you, April. You've done more than enough for me." Despite his pleasant tone, his body remained rigid and stiff, and it had nothing to do with the prior assault of the senbon.

"Are you alright?" April asked, voice careful but worried, very similar to one Don might use. She took a seat beside Leo, her gaze trained on his body language rather than his face... because she new all too well that he'd betray no emotion if he could help it.

Leo's face was a mask of stoicism, but he took a quiet sip of his tea and answered truthfully. "Last night was bad, April. And it was all my fault." Another sip of tea, and he rested the cup on a nearby coaster. "If I hadn't suggested that we go out in the first place, none of this would have happened."

Hearing this, the redhead placed a comforting hand on Leo's shoulder. "I only have half of the story, Leo, so I don't know... but what I _do_ know, is that you'd never lead your brothers astray. You're strong and competent, and they need you. So, buck up!" She removed her hand and returned it with a hearty slap to his shell.

Leo blinked, his apathetic mask broken and surprise showing. His eyes were wide as he blinked in slow consideration. "April, did you pretty much just tell me to suck it up?"

Smiling, the redhead nodded. "You do too much of this, Leo. Brooding and blaming yourself isn't helping. Your brothers need you. Stop wallowing and _do_ something."

Leo's expression turned pensive as he repeated: "Stop wallowing... and do something." His mind cycled through thoughts, specifically centered on his red-banded brother. With a firm nod of his own, he concluded his thoughts and punctuated it with speech. "You're right, April. That's what Raph would say. _Shell_ , that's what Raph would _do_! He's under a lot of stress; he's been out of sorts for a while. I need to talk to him. About everything..."

April's smile turned downwards, morphing into something more worried. "Raph doesn't like to talk much, Leo. Be careful. He might-"

"I'm counting on _that_ , April," Leo said, crossing his arms over his plastron. "I'm counting on him getting mad and fighting with me. Because, after last night, he needs to know that nothing has changed between him and the rest of us. April, he-" Leo's words trailed off, caught in his throat like something forbidden. "I won't speak of what he did. It is unforgivable, but Raph is still my brother. He'd risk his life for mine, and I need to do the same for him."

"Don said Raph didn't come home last night," April said softly, her gaze lowering.

Leo nodded. "Raph... does this when he's upset. He runs off. He thinks he's protecting us, but he's only hurting himself. We need to find him. April, can I use your phone?"

"Of course, Leo. What for?" April responded, getting up to grab her phone and handing it to her turtle companion.

Taking the phone, Leo regarded April's question. "If Raph is upset like I think he is, we'll have to drag him home personally. Otherwise, he- he'll get lost in his head. I know Raph doesn't show it, but he does a lot of his living up here-" he pointed to his head, suddenly reminded of how both Raph and Don had tried to explain the nature of the hothead. "And he does just as much living in here," he moved the same hand over his plastron where his heart was, eyes suddenly full of understanding. "We need to find him. I need to call Don. If Mikey's up for it, I want both him and Don to search the tunnels. And then - _Casey_!" Leo jolted, an idea suddenly striking him with an almost violent bout of limpidity. "April, my brothers and I can't go out in the daylight. Can we get Casey to hit the streets to look for Raph?" His eyes were hopeful; his tone of voice and body language displayed that he was in full leader-mode. The personification of determination.

April held her breath, surprised by the sudden change. "You know Casey would do anything for you guys. His number is-"

"Um," Leo interrupted, suddenly uncomfortable. In his own awkward moment, he appeared at least a few years younger. He turned his head to look away from April, abashed. "Can you make the calls for me? The buttons on your phone aren't exactly turtle-friendly." Holding up the phone in one hand, he wiggled the large thick fingers of his other.

And just like that, plans were underway.


	13. Ch 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. [QUITE A FEW REFERENCES IN THIS CHAPTER!] Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: Light chapter ahead. Proceed with caution. (Oh, and prepare to meet Hobo-Joe.)

**CH 12**

* * *

At Leo's order, the plan was to find Raphael and bring him home as soon as possible; any damage done would then be dealt with afterwards. Taking charge as much as he could, the blue-banded ninja directed everyone to work as a team. Mikey had -rather loudly- refused to search the tunnels, and so he was assigned to keep an eye on the lair and notify everyone if Raphael made himself known. Splinter would remain in the lair, if only to keep and eye on Michelangelo and watch the News for anything suspicious or alarming. Don had tapped into the security feed of several cameras and, when he came up empty, he opted to search the tunnels as Leo had requested.

Leo himself remained at the apartment, restless and pacing. It was too bright outside to risk sneaking around, even if he were to pull on a disguise; he couldn't chance it. And so, with nothing but a phone line to link him to the others and the search for his missing brother, he could only wait. And waiting was not something he enjoyed. As stoic and patient as he could be, he came undone when he was alone. In the few hours that April had been gone -because she had gone out to search with Casey so they could cover more ground- Leo had played checkers against himself and _lost_. He started a game of Solitaire on the computer but grew bored and stopped halfway through. He'd paced the apartment, mapping out every inch and then measuring it by the length of his own feet rather than Imperial or Metric units. And at one point, he even played a round of _Pat-a-Cake_ with the air... and it was at that moment he realized he'd truly lost it.

He needed something productive to do aside from sitting beside a phone and telling everyone what they already knew to do.

A worried Leo was one thing, but a worried Leo with a missing brother and nothing to do was something else. He knew he needed to stay in case Raph showed up. Well, that and the whole _'too green to be seen'_ ordeal. He knew he was acting like a fool, but his own restlessness was getting the better of him.

Ultimately, he found himself sitting on the floor in the Lotus position... not meditating. Because he couldn't risk missing a phone call that might be about his brother.

As per Leo's brilliant orders, April had alerted Casey of the search, and both humans went their separate ways. April would cover as much of the public scene as she could while Casey covered the outskirts and boroughs.

On April's escapade, she asked around, careful on details.

"Have you seen my friend? About this tall. Male. Answers to Raphael. Usually wears a mask..." Of course, she received a lot of odd responses, but none of them were what she'd been hoping for. Then again, part of her was relieved. _'No news is better than bad news,'_ she reasoned.

It seemed like forever had passed with nothing to show for anyone's worries or efforts. That is, until April's phone rang.

"Yes?" she answered, tentative, alert, alive with hope and nervousness.

She was greeted by Casey's voice. True to his own rash nature and impatience and devotion to his friends, he had gone out at a moment's notice, mask-less and hurried, wanting nothing more than to help his pals and find Raphael. He reasoned that if anyone had a shot at finding the hothead, it would be him; he promised to call the moment he had a lead. And he was calling now.

" _Babe_ , _it's Case. I found somethin'."_

"You found Raph?" April blurted, relief flooding her. "How is he? Why didn't you call Leo? Have you already talked to Leo? Did he tell you about the checker-thing? I've been so worried. The guys are-"

 _"No, babe. Hold up. I didn't find Raph. Just his mask."_ He paused, letting his words sink in. _"The mask has been cut clean off. No sign of Raph though."_

From her end, April gasped in horror, her mind dredging up the worst.

...

* * *

_[Construction Site, with Raphael]_

Everything about the man was wide. His forehead, his flabby cheeks that hung low over his chin like dog-ears. His thick wrinkly neck, resembling that of a Sharpe. His wide shoulders that had plenty of mass but virtually no muscle; they held the look and feel of sofa cushions. His _breasts_ , because this man _had_ those, were large and hung like something deformed and alien. His belly, something that resembled a beanbag chair in both size and appearance. Thankfully, his clothes covered the bulk of his... bulk from direct view. He wore a vest decorated in reflective tape, and the hardhat on his head had seen better days with its chipped paint and fading color.

Raphael regarded this man and his form first and foremost, and above all... he sized him up. A man that big would be slow, but his legs appeared unnaturally thick- muscular from the strain of carting the blobby man from place to place. All in all, the man was no threat, even if his hands were larger than Raph's head; those meaty sausage-fingers looked distinctly grimy and inefficient.

Face to face with the middle-aged man, Raphael considered his options. His first idea was to handle things peacefully, to play the whole ' _we come in peace'_ bit and then make a break for it; he didn't like running, but there were only so many things he could do when it came to people of the non-ninja variety. Because interacting with scared humans was something that almost never went well. He held up his hands in a placating gesture before speaking. "Easy now, I'm just a turtle... Just a mutant turtle that saves yer city all the time." He tried to sooth the man with his words, and he instantly regretted it.

It sounded stupid, even to his own ear slits.

The man stumbled back a step, eyes wide and jaw flapping soundlessly. As his jaw moved, the number of chins he had seemed to double and triple before retracting back into a single glob between his mouth and neck.

"Calm down, man, I'm just gonna leave all nice and quiet-like. Okay?"

The man was struck with absolute terror, eyes wide, he spouted "Y-You! You're the Creature from the Black Lagoon!"

Raph's face scrunched up in displeasure. "Ah, c'mon. I've seen the movie, and that's just an insult," the turtle teased half-heartedly, surprised to find some humor in his words rather than the numbness he'd felt before. "Give me some credit on originality here."

"A-Are you gonna eat me?" the man blathered.

Raphael took a moment to consider his response. He could lie, fool around, yank this guy's chain, scare him a little. Could be fun. But at the last minute, he decided against it. "Nah, I don't eat people." He opened his mouth and pointed to his teeth. "See these chompers? Ain't made fer people-eatin'." A thought struck him, and he acted on it. "Speakin' of eatin', ya smell like an Italian joint. Got any grub?" He sniffed at the man in an invasive manner and pulled back with a grimace when he caught the other odors the man carried. "And deodorant, ever hear of that? Sheesh! Ya got that whole onion-pit thing goin' on..." He caught himself grinning, amused beyond his whiles. He couldn't help it. It was nice to simply _feel_ something again, something non-aggressive, borderline complacent.

It was almost like he hadn't... -

_'Hadn't what?'_

His mind blanked out the information, and he was suddenly unsure if he even _had_ done something wrong. For a moment he recalled a fight with the Foot, Michelangelo hurt, Donatello taking him back to the lair, and Leonardo stung by needles... There was a brief flash of guilt, but the guilt was quickly overwhelmed by the next flash of memory: him throwing bloodied jabs at the Shredder; then the unmasking... Something about meeting on the roof of the corner shop. -The memory made his head hurt in deep pulsations, so intense that it almost forced a vocal protest from his throat, but he held back the sound, indignant.

His memory felt fuzzy, and he didn't want to dwell on it. But it was still bothersome.

 _'Feels like somethin's missing. Somethin' big.'_ Even that train of thought caused his head to throb. He forced himself to think, but he recalled little more than disjointed flashes, and those flashes seemed less and less important each time he played them over in his head. _'Maybe it ain't so important after all. If it was, I'd remember, right?'_

So he shrugged off the dilemma altogether and waited for the man to answer; after all, there was a possibility of food in the near future.

The man puffed out a breath and seemed to calm down. "I got a few sandwiches. If you don't eat me, I can share. But first... what... _are_ you?"

Raph shrugged noncommittally, his shoulders slumped and he felt more relaxed than he should have. It was as if, in the absence of the elusive memory, a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "Ya wouldn't believe me if I told ya. So, for yer sake, just say I'm a guy in a turtle-suit. And I'm hungry," he snapped his teeth in a shark-like manner, chuckling afterwards.

The man faked a nervous laugh of his own before finding his voice."W-Wait here. I'll get lunch!" Turning away, he bumbled off, both of his overly large ass cheeks seeming to battle one another with every step.

Raph sniggered and placed a hand over his face as his headache receded; his stomach growled in anticipation. Suddenly, he didn't feel so bad. Just hungry. And if this bozo of a human didn't cause any trouble, he'd be pretty damn content.

Sure enough, the man returned, his bulging belly present a whole second before the rest of him. He held a blue duffel bag in one hand and a green thermos in the other. He sat down on the ground near Raphael, his legs spread wide and his duffel resting between them."I'm taking my lunch break now," he said, as if it mattered.

"So am I," Raph responded automatically, eying the duffel like it would sprout legs and run off if he so much as blinked. He could smell the greasy contents and his mouth salivated conditionally.

The man unzipped the duffel and procured one, two, three, four... - _nine_ wrapped sandwiches stamped with a fast-food logo. With a constipated expression, he picked one up for himself and handed another to Raphael. "So, are you some kind of lizard? Frog? Alien?"

Raphael removed the wrapping of his sandwich, biting aggressively through the layers of bread, meat, and cheese; he grumbled through a mouthful: " _Turtle_." Swallowing and clearing his throat, he amended, "I'm a fuckin' turtle. Look at the shell." He jabbed a thumb towards his carapace for emphasis.

The man nodded. "And I'm a human. Leader of all humans, actually. And I'd like to say that we come in peace."

Half-choking on his next bite, Raphael stifled a laugh. "Ya ain't foolin' anyone, fat man. First off, I already implied that I ain't an alien. Second, yer not the president, and the human race doesn't have a single leader."

The man bowed his head, a blush coating his blubbery face with mottled color. "I, uh, was just checking your knowledge on human stuff," he lied easily enough, but his dishonesty was evident in the way his eyes shifted and his lips twitched just so.

"Whatever ya say, man. Ya got a name? Or should I just call ya Hobo-Joe?" Raphael felt oddly conversational and at ease. "You give me yer name, and I won't eat _all_ yer food." He half-joked, because he _could_ eat all those stupid sandwiches...

"Chuck Norris," came the man's response after a moment's hesitation.

Raph rolled his eyes. "Liar. More like Dick Buttkiss. And yer about as much of a Chuck Norris as I am a Prince Charming."

And then it was the stout man's turn to laugh, a loud and hearty guffaw. "Alright, _Shrek_. You caught me. Ronald. I'm Ronald Reagan. -No, better yet, Nixon!" Amusement flashed in the human's squinty eyes.

Sighing when the joke grew stale, Raph shook his head. "I have a semi-formal education, so stop bein' a douche about it. I know all the historical figures and junk. I asked yer name, not yer banking information."

The man suddenly looked startled. "You know what a _bank_ is?!"

Raph's amusement faded quickly enough. He growled in a show of irritation. "I'm a reptile, not an idiot. Jeeze. If ya ain't gonna _act_ intelligent, don't talk to me." With that, he continued to eat, savoring each bite, finishing one sandwich and grabbing another... then hijacking the thermos and gagging at the vile liquid that tasted pungent and burned his throat. "What the fuck is this? It smells like- _ugh_."

"That, my awkward green friend, is vodka."


	14. Ch 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH 13**

* * *

The rest of the day had been a blur of little more than ignorance. Night fell and, despite the haze that clouded his memory, Raph was drawn to the small familiar corner shop.

It _felt_ important, for him to be there. Some sort of internal navigation system had beckoned him. It was an itch in his mind that he couldn't scratch and, in effort to make the nagging sensation go away, he'd found himself there, sidled comfortably within the shadows; the city alive around him.

He loved that city noise, in truth, though he'd just as soon complain about it. The angry drivers and their cars and horns. The traffic report alone could be considered its own form of music. His heart thrummed with the action of hurried citizens and frenzied motion. However, as much as he enjoyed the sounds of people bustling from place to place with their self-important egocentric posteriors, cell phones acting as lifelines as they went about their single-minded agendas, none of that was what held his ever-shifting focus.

He was loathe to admit that he still felt a slight buzz from indulging that thermos he'd been given by dear ol' Hobo-Joe. That thermos, now emptied, rested along his side held by a strap that crooked over his shoulder. But that wasn't the only thing Raphael had been gifted in his time with the rather plump and blimp-like human. A large vest lined with reflective tape was now wrapped around his shell and fastened over his plastron; a faded hardhat rested over his green dome of a head- the interior lining ripped out to allow a more comfortable fitting.

He must've made quite a sight; in fact, he'd laughed about it earlier in his time with Hobo-Joe - somewhere between the shared vodka, the slew of turtle-puns that he wasn't quite proud of, and the small series of confessions that came out when the alcohol had loosened his tongue. Though the taste was anything but pleasant -it wasn't straight vodka; it had been mixed with some kind of juice that was neither orange nor red and therefore had been discarded as something Raphael didn't care to name in the juice-category - he found appreciation in the warmth that spread through his abdomen. He'd particularly enjoyed the carefree and borderline lazy feeling that had settled over him.

During his brief time with the stout man and that magic thermos, Raphael decided that he understood why people drank themselves into a stupor. It eased him away from his problems and, while it wasn't a cure by any means, it was certainly an escape. Usually, he'd go fist-first into a custom therapy session when he was addled, but that could only work so well and accompanied the risk of him taking things too far.

Aside from the impairment of senses and the sudden lack of motivation, Raphael really couldn't fault the act of drinking. Not that he intended to do it again. But the thought was there...

Suddenly, it seemed, that the winos in the alleyway were onto something. They smelled of piss and trash and were plastered more often than not to the point of garnishing pity, but if they needed an escape, Raphael wouldn't hold it against them.

He could no more look at them with disgust than he could himself when it came to his anger. Because, even if there was no fight to be had, anger was his safety net: his fallback spot. His own personal default setting and comfort zone.

He regarded his time with Hobo-Joe for a moment longer before adjusting the hardhat on his head. He'd never say it aloud, but he'd always wanted to wear one, preferably a red one. Then again, he also wanted to wear a cape at least once, but he had to draw the line somewhere.

 _'A cape is more up Mikey's alley,'_ he thought to himself, looking over the stoney exterior of the corner shop.

It wasn't anything special. It was just one of those rundown places that passed from owner to owner with slight renovations between debuts. One day it'd be an ice cream parlor and a month later, it might be a pawn shop. Two months later, a little repair shop for clocks, or an art studio... It just wasn't special. The location was far from ideal to draw in customers, and the foundation was crumbling.

The roof still held though, and that was his destination. From his safe little patch of darkness, he caught onto the metal rungs of a fire escape; he clamored noisily up, clumsy in his effort to get to the roof, and he loudly ' _shushed_ ' himself and the fire escape after every few steps he took.

There was something about that rooftop, something important.

A rendezvous point.

 _'Ron-day-voo'_ his mind supplied.

Finally finding purchase atop the roof, he dropped to a kneel, his head spinning, the world turning on its side and then righting itself again too quickly, making him feel queasy. For a moment, those sandwiches -the ones he'd eaten with Hobo-Joe - almost did the refractory version of a reappearing act. His throat burned with pending bile but the sensation receded. He vaguely noted that his tongue felt rough and dry against the roof of his mouth.

He pulled the strap of the thermos off his shoulder and set the item aside; it was getting uncomfortable. The removal of the hardhat followed but the vest remained.

Finding his stomach calm once more, he looked around; the roof was empty, save for a book that rested dead-center on the platform. It could have been any old book left by anyone, but it looked too perfectly aligned with the skyline beyond to have been put there by a force less than purposeful. Too tired -unmotivated- to get up for the moment but longing to investigate all the same, Raph crawled on his hands and knees, stopping once he reached the book.

It was simple and black, inexpensive but of fair quality, with bright gold lettering, a fancy font that beamed brightly _: In Loving Memory of: DANNY PENNINGTON_.

Raph stared at the words as his vision drew in and out of focus. It took longer than he'd like to admit for those words to register in his brain, and something clicked, sending a painful jolt through his head as a memory re-weaved itself back in place.

_'The Foot soldier. A kid named Danny Pennington... My sai, right through his throat like a spoon through a glob of jello.'_

If he'd been hungry, he lost his appetite. He felt a whole new kind of sickness setting in, and a terrible bout of self-loathing began to creep over him. Suddenly stricken with an intense feeling of vulnerability, he opted to seek comfort in a familiar tool; sitting up and quickly divesting -tossing the vest over to the makeshift pile of thermos and hardhat- he reached towards his belt for his sai, only to find that his weapons were gone, still, left behind a small eternity ago...

He minutely wondered where they were, if he'd ever see them again. If he'd get a new set, or if he'd find another weapon. He couldn't imagine spending the rest of his life unarmed. His hands curled, as if holding an imaginary sai in each one, and he imagined the feel of the leather-bound hilts, the whisper of cold steel brushing against his fingers as he adjusted his grip or gave them a spin.

The turtle was startled from his thoughts when a long thin shadow stretched over the roof and mingled with his own rather compressed one. He stared at the new shadow for several seconds, his brain unable to process what he was seeing and why it was important, but he steeled his focus to the best of his ability. His gaze traveled along the shadow and stopped upon seeing its caster.

A man, quite human. Boots, simple evening wear, not too casual or out of place, and a face that Raphael never truly wanted to know but would now never forget. A haunting image scratched into the backs of his eyelids... The face of a very real Boogeyman.

"Shredda," Raphael breathed, eyes narrowing. He once again moved to grip his sais but only came up empty in his endeavor. He suddenly missed them more than air; he'd hold his breath forever if he could grip them and the security they could offer. He felt foolish without them.

The man, Shredder, was completely devoid of armor tonight. Not a single blade or plate of steel upon his visible person. Even so, he appeared just as imposing and malicious, menacing. "I'm pleased to see you here, Raphael."

Raphael opened his mouth to retort, then thought better of it before asking loudly: "Where's yer armor?"

The too-human foe waved a hand in dismissal. "Come now, Raphael. Do you mean to tell me that you're worried over something so trivial? Or does it bother you, to see me so bare? So unarmed and unprotected?"

"Maybe I just miss seein' somethin' over yer face. Not exactly used ta seein' that mug, now am I?" Raph spat, suddenly flooded with a whole new brand of frustration, though the feeling was a wavering one.

Ignoring the initial spurn, Shredder spoke in turn. "It is worth noting, Raphael, that you seem to be at a loss when you can neither properly latch onto anger nor sling your sarcasm. It appears that you have no wit to direct at me as a person, and you focus your barbs and distress on my disembodied armor rather than myself. In showing myself as a separate entity, I have taken away your acerbic ammunition."

"Ah, shut yer trap. I don't need ta hear yer shit right now." Raph bit, but the intended malice wasn't present in his tone.

Shredder took notice, a spark of glee behind his eyes as he looked _down_ at the still- _kneeling_ turtle. "Well then, what _do_ you need?" He quipped. "In a world that rejects you, where do you belong? Your family resents you. You can't control yourself. You're looking for an escape. Is that why you reek of alcohol? Tell me..." He scrunched up his nose and repeated, as if he needed to reaffirm the word himself. "Alcohol..."

The words and implication making him feel trapped, Raphael got to his feet, his mind jumping through hoops of infinite clarity as he assessed the situation, his position, and his options. Falling back on instinct, he slipped into a defensive stance that could easily be maneuvered into something either offensive or more flighty. As he himself seemed to register that, he spread his feet and balled his hands into fists.

This new position virtually took away his 'flight' option.

Regardless of circumstance, he'd always _hated_ running; ironically, when it came to his family, that's all he seemed to do.

"I ain't runnin' no more," he said to himself aloud, narrowing his eyes as he allowed the edges of his vision to blur and focused on the throb in his head and the pulse of his chest.

Shredder made no move to attack, defend, or retaliate in any way. Instead, he spoke, voice unnervingly calm. "Now, now, Raphael, you exercised the basics of honor and pride, and I will do the same. Neither of us will strike an opponent who _can_ ' _t_ or _won't_ fight." His words, a repetition of Raph's own, were mocking, condescending. "Come, let us call a truce for now. In Danny's honor. Do we have a deal? Let's put aside our animosity... to mourn the life you stole..."

Both his stance and resolve faltering, Raph crushed a hand to his face and growled "Yer fuckin' with my head, y'know that? Yer doin' it on purpose, ain't ya?"

"No, Raphael, I'm simply keeping you grounded. Without me, you would get lost... up here." He tapped a long spindly finger to his temple, a smirk etching itself across his features as if he'd just revealed the punch line to a private joke. "Your aggression isn't your problem, Raphael, you-"

"Y'know, I'm gettin' mighty sick and tired of hearin' my name from yer mouth."

"Would you rather I call you ' _Freak_ ' and ' _Monster_?' What about ' _Murderer?_ ' Because I could. And I would be using terms that are nothing shy of accurate. However, I am courteously offering a truce: a truce that could very well extend to your brothers. Tell me, Raphael, would you accept... if it meant sparing your family further trouble with the Foot and myself?" His expression was one of curiosity and nothing more. Gone was all cocky demeanor. Gone was the smirk and scathing tone of voice.

"You ain't the kinda guy who would call a truce because one Foot died," Raph said, his words thoughtful. "Now, what could ya possibly want?"

Shredder raised an arm high, as if to signal someone or something.

Raphael grew wary.

Stealthy, silent, ninja-like, nearly two dozen black-clad Foot poured onto the roof and took up residence behind the lead villain. With the city lights serving as a backdrop, it looked every bit like the cover of a comic book.

"Fuckin' ambush? A trap? That what dis is?" Raph snarled, toes curling against the grain of brick beneath his feet.

Shredder said nothing. His ninja slowly, one by one, began to unmask themselves before the turtle. Only when each one had a face and identity of their own did he allow himself to speak. "Like young Danny, each member of the Foot is a _person_. Their families -if they have family at all- reject them, misunderstand them, use and scold them... until they are chased away onto the streets. Having nowhere to go, they come to me. As an alternative to being alone and dejected, I offer them union and goals."

"It's like a damn cult, and you know it," Raph butted in, his tone sour.

But the human disregarded his words and continued as if the mutant hadn't spoken at all. "Each one has a name, a face, and a life. They want little more than something to latch onto. Someone to look up to, to rely on. They want a purpose that exceeds what the rest of the world expects from them. I'm sure you can understand, Raphael."

And Raphael said nothing, his mouth drawn into a taut line. Because he _could_ relate, but he'd never confess. In his mind, he conjured every fight he had with his family. Every time he messed up and dug them further into the trenches. Every lecture and look of disappointment... He knew they saw him as the muscle, the hothead, and little else... but it wasn't fair. Inside, he was burning with passion and the desire to help; he just wasn't good at it. He didn't have the proper outlets... No matter what he tried, it was either too much or too little. Never right. Never good enough. Never, ever enough to simply earn the good graces of those he cared for and secretly sought to impress.

Clearing his throat and stealing Raph from his embittered thoughts once more, Shredder gave a nod of his head to signal an expectant ninja.

In that moment, said ninja approached Raphael with a bundle of cloth in his hands. A few feet away, the soldier knelt before the turtle and presented the bundle. When Raph made no move to take the proffered item, the Foot placed it on the ground and proceeded to unwrap the cloth and reveal the contents.

Inside were two sharp, freshly polished tri-bladed weapons.

Raphael's breath hitched as he stared at the familiar set of sais.

"For you, Raphael," Shredder said. "They are yours, after all. It is a favor that does not need returned. However, I will ask you tonight, to look into the faces of each young man here, and tell me what you see..."

Cautiously reaching down and grasping the weapons, the mask-less turtle turned them over in his hands, giving a thorough inspection and watching the evening lights glint from the shiny metal. His eyes then traveled from the weapons to his unarmored foe, and then to the group of ninja, one by one. His eyes passed over their faces, taking in their features and expressions... trying to ignore the Foot insignia that rested somewhere on their clothing where familiar bandanas were sashed and tied around their necks or biceps.

After a bit of thought, the answer came plainly enough. "They're just kids," Raph said, voice low and conflicted. Seeing that not a single enemy on that roof was armed and yet he held his sais, he felt _wrong_ and out of place. He slipped them into his belt and scuffed his foot before he reaffirmed his position, standing to full height and feigning bravado. "So, now what, _Soupy_?" he asked awkwardly.

"Soupy?" Shredder asked, a strange lilt to his voice.

Raph shrugged. "I was gonna call ya _Tin-Can_ , but ya ain't got yer armor. So, I went with somethin' _inside_ the tin can, and I called ya Soupy."

"You could just as well continue to call me Shredder. Or, my name is Oroku Saki."

"Nope, I gotta say, I kinda like callin' ya Soupy. That one's gonna stick fer a while."

Shredder - Oroku Saki - _Soupy_ , raised a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before taking a breath and expelling it along with his own tension. Once decidedly calm, he found his voice and refocused the conversation. "The point I am trying to acclimate is, when these children have nowhere to run, they know they are not alone."

"Because they have a pompous windbag like you fer a master?" Raph chapped.

But _Soupy_ was quick with a backlash of words, both defensive and offensive. "No, because they have _each other_. And, Raphael, I mean to offer you a truce. From this day onward, no one else has to die by your hands. Just as your blades have been wiped clean, so shall be your slate of morale. I will allow you to deliberate, but first... remove your gear. You are in no danger and need not protect yourself. This is, after all, a _memorial_ _service_. Do not disgrace young Pennington."

Frowning and looking around once more, the turtle realized that the human foe he'd dubbed 'Soupy' was correct. No one else was armed or armored. Glancing down at that book that had seemed so important before, he felt out of place, as if he'd intruded upon something sacred. Uncertain, he began to remove his elbow pads first...

His actions were automatic, his thoughts a million miles away; his heart felt like it was beating too slow. _'Can it really be that simple? Is the price of a life worth so little that the slate can be wiped clean, just like that? What of my brothers? I have ta go home eventually, don't I? Will they... hate me? I wouldn't blame 'em if they did.'_

Dropping both elbow pads and following them up with his knee pads, the belt was the last to go. He felt odd, standing there so bare before an armor-less villain who refrained from fighting altogether. Even more strange was the apparent lack of distrust. Crossing his arms, Raphael tried to draw his mind back into focus.

It seemed as if a makeshift memorial service was underway. A young Foot had taken the black book in hand and begun to read through a few pre-written speeches about the late ninja's life.

After that, several Foot lined up, all close in age and degree of expression. One by one, they took turns telling short stories and anecdotes, revealing high-spirited times and pleasant memories that they all shared while in and out of their shadow-esque attire.

All in all, it was mostly strange for Raphael. He'd never attended a memorial service of any kind, and while this was low-key and unprofessionally put together by Danny's friends, it still managed to tug at his heartstrings.

"He was so proud when he got his bandana with the Foot insignia. We all started callin' him _BanDanny_ ," a younger Foot said. "Okay, so _I_ called him that _one_ _time_ , and he stole my lunch money. He gave it back though..." There were a few chuckles and murmurs from other members of the Foot clan.

"He helped me with my algebra homework," someone acknowledged. "Got me my first C!"

"He taught me to stand up to my dad. Now, dad don't hit me anymore."

A few more accounts, then... "Danny was like a brother to me... All the Foot are, actually..."

While possibly a hundred things had been said, all in good grace and varying degrees of sincerity towards the fallen ninja, it was that last line that choked Raph up a little, though he tried to cover it with a feigned cough.

He'd never thought, though he should have at least considered, that the group of masked delinquents might be something more than pending criminals. Now that the thought had surfaced, he had no choice but to dwell on it.

They considered themselves _brothers_ , and they'd lost one of their own. If he understood correctly, their biological family ties were frayed at best, and they relied on support from each other and guidance from a Master. That master just happened to be ol' Soupy himself and, while the man's morals and methods were decidedly corrupt, Raphael could understand why the teens would listen. After all, the man was a voice of reason with power and authority backed by public support and a few well-placed words.

For a moment, he could almost see himself in their shoes. Chased away by a family that could never understand. Alone and seeking guidance, and finding purpose among masked strangers... It was harlequin bullshit if he ever heard it, but it made sense enough.

...

The memorial service -if that's what it was- concluded, and Shredder handed Raphael a notebook with a pen tucked into the spiral. Seeing the turtle's look of confusion, he explained: "In that notebook is the name and contact information of several young members of the Foot, many of which were on this rooftop tonight. I have made a decision to help you make up for taking Pennington's life. Success will be your own personal baptism."

Raph blinked slowly, uncomprehending.

Shredder's expression turned to a one of seemingly infinite patience. "You took a life. You broke apart their team, Raphael. Accident or not, you still did it. Now, I leave it up to you to fix it. Until further notice, I leave every Foot in that notebook under your care and order. Should you refuse, they will be abandoned and without direction; and if they succumb to gun-toting street violence, it will be on your conscience."

Raph's eyes bulged slightly, mouth falling open, jaw unhinged. He held the notebook in his hands and it suddenly felt much heavier. "I don't understand," he said bluntly. "If yer tryin' ta tell me somethin', I ain't gettin' it."

The human turned away and easily slid into the shadows, but his eyes still managed to catch a haunting gleam before he completely vanished. Ultimately, it was his disembodied voice that spoke to Raphael one last time. "Those Foot are yours. Help them. Use them. Their fate is in your hands. Report to me if there is any trouble." And with that, he was gone. Shredder. Oroku Saki. Soupy- whoever the fuck he was.

And Raphael just stood there stupidly, holding a book and staring at it like it was going to either explode or release some kind of neuro-toxin. The turn of events didn't make sense to him. All he'd wanted was to mourn Danny's death, apologize to the boy's father, and then seek forgiveness. Now, everything seemed upside down. His greatest enemy had offered a truce and then entrusted him with the lives of multiple young and impressionable men.

He considered leaving the notebook and fleeing, but after swallowing a rather thick lump in his throat and catching a glimpse of a moving shadow, neither fleeing nor failure seemed like much of an option. He thought of all those young faces, and while it was the last thing he wanted, part of him already knew what he had to do.

The moving shadow came closer.

It wasn't a Foot.

Forest green skin glimmered in dim lighting, and on that skin, a familiar blue cloth with waving bandana tails.

Leo.

"Come home, Raph," he said simply, stepping further into view.

Raphael's breath hitched; his heart thumped wildly against his plastron. He gripped the notebook tightly in his hand and bit back the reply that threatened to tumble forth. He had too much to think about; he couldn't say the wrong thing too soon, so he set his jaw and said nothing. Still holding that notebook, keeping a death-grip on it, he disregarded Leo and turned to reclaim his gear, belt and sais first. He ignored the hardhat, vest, and thermos he'd obtained from his construction-site friend; it just wasn't important anymore.

His perspective and priorities all seemed to have found a new order of hierarchy.

Four more figures appeared alongside Leo, and Raph didn't need to look to know who they were.

April and Casey, Don and Mikey. Lined up with Leo and expecting to take a distraught and mask-less turtle home to the sewers.

Fully geared and notebook in hand, Raph turned to regard them all directly. "Leonardo," he said, voice surprisingly calm. It felt strange, the full name, but it also felt right. In that single moment, he felt more grown up and mature than he ever had before. Taking it as a positive sign, he continued to address everyone in the same manner. "Donatello." His breath drew in a little deeper as he regarded his last sibling, wearing orange and looking completely lost and almost fragile. "Michelangelo." And finally, his human friends- if they still _were_ his friends. "April... Casey..." His resolve began to crumble, but he held onto it the best he could; he couldn't add last names to their title, nor could he bring himself to alter the names in any way.

He was glad not to feel angry or empty, but whatever it was that he felt, it was not pleasant or welcome. In a way, he supposed it was a sense of duty, one that Leo himself probably shouldered every single day, and the burden was harsh.

"Raph, we're bringing you home," Leo said, voice firm.

"It's... not home without ya, bro," Mikey whispered, his body trembling slightly. "I'm sorry... for the pranks and stuff."

Don opened his mouth next, but what he would have said, no one would ever know. Because Raph chose that time to speak up, his words final.

"I ain't goin' home. Can't. Not yet." A quick glance at the notebook, and he leapt from his position on the roof and fell into the concealing darkness below.


	15. Ch 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH 14**

* * *

If Raphael's family had chased him after his abrupt departure from the roof of the corner shop, he didn't bother to look back and see. His breath was ragged, his heart thundering. He sped through the alleys, weaving himself between buildings and leaping or flipping over whatever obstacles got in his way. He ducked behind parked vehicles and went as far as hitching a ride on the back of a bus as it took a slow turn on a sharp corner. From there, he'd leapt onto the roof of a car; he pivoted off and into yet another alley. Up a fire escape from there, two rooftops over and down again.

He didn't count on the darkness to shield him. He didn't rely on speed or tactics. He just did what his mind and body agreed for him to do. He just threw himself towards his future, away from the pain and ache that chased after him like something foul and beastly.

He ran til his lungs burned, despite how slow and deep his breathing was. He ran til his body tried to quit, muscles burning and sore and begging for him to stop, and then he kept going anyways.

Suddenly, it seemed, what happened not so long ago felt like forever ago. The more distance he put between himself and everything else, the further behind it truly and rightfully felt.

As if a physical escape could offer him honest reprieve.

He didn't look back to see if he was being followed, if his brothers and human friends were close behind. He was hopeful and fearful of what he'd find, so he did his best _not_ to find out at all.

He didn't know how he might react if they caught up to him, nor did he want to consider that they might not be going after him.

For once in his life, he felt that it was safer to be ignorant, to not know... To simply ignore what all logic would try to force upon him if he were to dwell too long.

So, he just kept running. As much as he hated running, it was the only thing that made sense. His only option.

His mind was a muddled mess of conflict, baited between: _'Please, come aftah me. Stop me before I do somethin' I regret. I don't wanna be alone, and family doesn't let family go...'_ and _'No! It has ta be this way. I need to fix my mess, and a truce with Shredda might fall in the family's favor. This might be my only chance ta do somethin' right. So, just keep away. I don't think I could resist if you guys were to come find me... and ask me one more time to come home. One more time, that's all it would take. One more... I'm strong, but not strong enough to say no. It's not fair; strength is all I got -all I've ever been good for, and I'm just not strong enough! I can't take dis shit on my own, but I can't push it onto my brothers either!'_

He clutched that spiral notebook in his hands like a lifeline and kept going, pushing himself as hard and fast as he could, needing desperately to get away. Away from the oppressive team that might seek him out -or just as bad, the ghost of the team that didn't bother to. Away from their disappointed or chiding gazes. Away from the pending lectures... and away from his own actions.

His whole self screamed to keep going, to not stop. To not give up.

From all his exertion, he slowed to a staggering pace; his stamina wearing down.

In time, he was only half-sure of what he'd been running from in the first place.

His mind concocted a scenario where he might be in a horror film, chased upstairs like the bimbos he often made fun of. He imagined locking himself in a room and boarding up the windows, only to find that what he wanted to keep out... was on the wrong side of the door, trapped inside with him.

And he'd damned himself.

It was just a thought, a silly thing to make up, but it terrified him.

Where he was going to go from there, he couldn't fathom. He felt crowded and backed into a corner, yet he was physically alone and on the run. He only came to a complete halt when he felt a nearby presence; his heart sank and his insides coiled and twisted; his guts churned in both stress and relief. He wholly wanted to turn and see Leonardo there, in all his perfect self-righteous glory, offering him a hand and telling him that... everything could, and would, be alright again. His heart thudded loud; he could hear it pounding. His hope -because, yes, he had that- turned into a fragile device just barely managing to keep him afloat, away from the undercurrent of hurt and despair.

His optimism, however faint, was slaughtered indefinitely when heard a dark voice call to him: "You were quite clever in your escape, Raphael, despite your lack of pursuers. Once again, I've been watching, and I am impressed. Your resolve is firm, but your ability to reason is something that can be vastly improved... with guidance."

The next thing Raphael was aware of, a human hand was planted on his shoulder. The contact made him flinch, an action that was painfully obvious in the absence of his mask. He suddenly missed the fabric more than he thought possible; he'd dwell on its significance at a later time. For now, he was torn between being angry and depressed and hurt and... too many things all at once. Too many emotions, he couldn't begin to process it. It made his head hurt, so he stopped trying. His shoulders slumped under the weight of that five-fingered hand. He wanted to shrug it off, to snap at its owner and allow the familiar burst of rage to flow through him, but he was so tired, emotionally and physically burnt out. His ability to comprehend seemed to take on a lag; before he could form a proper response to the added stimuli, that voice came again.

Slow and soothing, drawing the entirety of the emerald-skinned turtle's attention, the man spoke. "Take pride in yourself. In your abilities and actions. Once done, they cannot be undone. Your only hope to right your wrongs is through future actions. Let young Pennington's death be a lesson to you. If you do not, it will have been in vain."

The words were far from assuaging, but the feel of a hand on his shoulder, the light and comforting pressure- it was something Raph had longed for. Something his own family hadn't offered in a long time and, against his better judgement, he welcomed the gesture. Furthermore, he confessed "I'll do what I have ta, fer Danny... But I'm not a criminal, and I ain't gonna act like one."

"Raphael, I would never compromise your moral integrity. That is a promise. Your actions are your own, regardless of reason. Remember this, and remember it well. You always have a choice; you are not a trained animal or a mindless drone. I will not mould you into a tool. But, my offer stands, and I think you'll agree that it is not negotiable. For Pennington, step in to rebuild his faction of the Foot, which _you_ have broken. Fix it, redeem yourself. Report to me with your progress."

"I wanna do somethin' ta make up fer Danny's death, but yer askin' a lot. Give me one good reason ta go along with this. I mean-"

All-imposing and ever-resourceful, the man had his answer and presented it without delay. "How about _three_ good answers? _Your brothers._ Your brothers will no longer be deemed a targeted enemy of the Foot clan for as long as you do your part. This is invaluable. Should your brothers and the Foot continue to clash, it is only a matter of time before more blood is spilled. It is the only logical option, if you wish to prevent further casualties. For your own sake, and for the sake of your brothers, I believe we have a deal."

Raph's jaw was tightly set as he considered the words, their meaning, his position. For him to accept, it would be nothing short of sacrifice, he was certain. He had no problem giving his life for the good of his family; still, he considered the alternatives. His mind ran through scenarios where he and his brothers -on positive terms with one another- might again run into the Foot. A fight would be inevitable. The fight... escalating to seismic proportions.

He imagined each of his brothers' faces twisted in horrific shock and realization as blood would puddle on the ground around them.

_Leo's katana... something he's so prideful of, stained red. Red. Too much red as a Foot is beheaded by a miscalculated slice. Leo's honor, more than gone, would be destroyed._   
_Don's bo... something he carried solely out of necessity, benevolent as he is, landing a skull-crushing blow to an enemy, knocking 'em to the ground... permanently. Don's calm patience and pacifism, over-ruled by guilt and fear- guilt for what he'd done, and fear that he had that kind of strength to begin with._   
_Mikey's nunchaku... something that had brought him so much excitement and proved to be effective in his blaze of energy, hitting just a little too hard in just the right spot, causing brain hemorrhage. Mike's happy-go-lucky self, lost in a vacant stare as he received a fatal blow of his own..._

He imagined their anguish. Their screams. He considered how they might withdraw from one another... assuming it wasn't _their_ corpses strewn about the battlefield.

 _'That can't be allowed to happen,'_ Raph thought, his eyes closing tightly as he took a deep breath and fought to dam up his emotions. _'It's too late fer me. I've already taken a life. But they don't have ta share that experience.'_

Quelling his grief momentarily, Raphael suddenly felt closed-in. The hand that rested on his shoulder had overstayed its welcome by several seconds. Taking note of this, the turtle feigned his usual sense of pride and contempt, swatting the hand away and standing up a little straighter. His fatigue was all but forgotten. He trained his gaze upward to meet that of his former foe, as if issuing a challenge. His voice came out quieter than he would have liked, but he continued, needing speak the words that rested heavily in his mind, burning on his tongue. "If I do-"

"You _will_ ," Shredder cut in, his tone leaving no room for debate, but the turtle kept going, needing his words to be heard and understood.

For the sake of clarity, if nothing else, he pressed on. " _If I do_ ," Raph repeated, louder, more confidently, stubbornness striking his tone and hardening his eyes into a glare, "I want assurance. My family... it includes my brothers as well as my sensei. Splinta goes unharmed too, right? No targeting. And all the stealin' and crap ya guys do, will it stop? 'Cause, I don't want no part in it."

The human considered the words before speaking carefully. "The Foot is not simply a group of petty thieves. It would be a waste, to train ninja specifically for that purpose. I don't deny that a bit of theft does take place from time to time, but seldom is it on my order." Shredder paused, thoughtful in the way he regarded the mutant before him. "Then again, there are exceptions to everything, Raphael. Tell me, are you familiar with Robin Hood?"

Confused, the turtle gave a curt nod. "Yeah, the guy who wears tights and dresses like Peter Pan, right? I think Mike-"

" _Michelangelo_ ," Shredder corrected, an amused expression warping his features into something distinct and unsettling.

Raphael blinked at the interruption, partly surprised, but he shrugged it off and continued. "Yeah- Michelangelo- he likes the cartoon version with the fox... 'Bout a guy who steals from rich bastards and helps the poor. Good guy, y'know, fer an idiot in tights."

The human gave a slow nod as he displayed a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, something like that of a politician; an expression that was likely offered to friend and foe alike. His sharper features were highlighted in the glow of night lighting. "The Foot never takes from those who can't do without. And it is never their intent or order to harm unless someone directly impedes or they are targeted first. Self defense is a perfectly reasonable-"

"Bullshit!" Raph spat, suddenly given a reason to lash out; he latched onto that feeling, needing it. "What about all the innocent people's lives ya take?! How can ya possibly justify any of that?! What about..."

Quirking a thin brow, Shredder looked at the turtle with something akin to pity.

And Raphael _hated_ pity.

"I suppose, Raphael, that I should ask you the same thing. How can _you_ justify your recent actions? I could wait for you to give me a life-altering speech, but something tells me that you don't know the appropriate answer. I think it might be more beneficial to both of us... if I simply help you. After all, your moral redemption is a priority." He gestured to the spiral notebook still within the turtle's grasp. "Your own faction of the Foot awaits; they are counting on you. The rest of the world has already let them down; do not fail them also."

In that moment, Raphael truly wanted to seethe and retort, to shout something vicious and insulting, but his mind blanked out anything intelligible and he glanced, instead, at the notebook as he regarded what was asked of him.

Could he do it?

What needed done. For Danny's sake.

What wasn't optional, if Raphael were to remain true to himself.

To cleanse the blood from his hands... could he set foot onto a path laid before him by the Shredder?

* * *

_[One Month Later]  
_

It wasn't quite a cell, the room he was in. The enclosed space was too large and he could come and go as he pleased. Luxury was sparse, but that was his own choice. Material objects meant little to him. He regarded this room as something of a rental because he couldn't call it home. It was simply a place with a bed and a desk where he could retire when his work was done. Sitting at a desk, he clicked his pen to life and allowed his vision to sweep over the room and rest on the wall- more specifically, something that had been tacked to the wall. A familiar bandana with the initials DP stitched neatly into the interior.

_Danny Pennington..._

The name had once been poison but now seemed like motivation. Something to keep him going. A reminder that he couldn't turn back.

He'd been given Danny's own bandana for reasons he couldn't fathom, but he welcomed the offer, almost cherishing it as a keepsake. It represented so many things... about Danny... and about himself. It was a reminder that any innocence he might have had... was gone. But in Danny's honor, he could still try; he owed the kid that much.

That bandana, the one tacked to the wall with the Foot clan insignia on it, was not unlike the one tied around his own arm. At first, the symbol of the Foot was something he truly despised, but he was too burnt out on hatred to keep it up for long. It took too much energy to be pissed at a piece of fabric. So, he let it go. He accepted it. It meant nothing to him, so it mattered little.

Pushing aside his thoughts on the matter, he took a long drawn breath and put his pen to paper in one of the several notebooks he was granted, as if putting a piece of him on paper could take the stress and pain away. Foolish as it was, he tried anyways...

* * *

_[Journal Entry]_

_I don't know when it really began, or when I noticed that I was diff'rent, but it happened. It happened, and there ain't nothin' gonna change it. Too many mistakes, I can't redeem them all. It was a stupid thought, that I meant something more to my family. That I could be anything more than brunt force to the team or a liability to my siblings... or... a disappointment to sensei. All I know is, somewhere in all this shit, someone's got a sick sense of humor._

_I... only wish Michelangelo was here to laugh about it with me.  
Because, it is funny. This past month... has been... - I ain't even got the words fer it._

_My family... My old team... I hope yer okay. You... were my brothers. You were my whole world._   
_Now, it just seems like my world got a whole lot bigger. I always hated being confined ta the lair, but now the world's too big fer even me. It's easy to get lost, and I'm afraid I ain't gonna make it back._   
_Any idea how big the world is, Donatello? I bet that brain of yours could come up with some number for it. I still ain't good with numbers; right there's proof that some things never change._   
_And Leonardo... I just wanna say, maybe ya had a bigger influence on me than I thought. Or, maybe I'm still a big disappointment. I dunno. Sometimes, I like ta pretend I'm you, and I got all the plans... Ya always said 'No turtle left behind,' but... bro, I'm pretty far behind. Or, am I ahead?_   
_It's hard to imagine that I'd get ahead of any of you, but I don't even know anymore._

_Hey, I've gotta wonder, when you guys get together in the mornin' ta eat and talk about the night before... I wonder... am I ever a topic of conversation? Got anythin' nice ta say 'bout me? Probably not. Just as well. I can't... say a lot... about you guys either._   
_It hurts to do that. To talk about ya, like we're friends or somethin'. We ain't friends. Can't be._   
_I left you guys, and you let me leave. But just this once, I won't blame you. I know what I did. I know a lot of stuff now. The price of life -it's cheaper than ya think. The guilt... it only gets ta me sometimes. Mostly, I just ignore it._

_I'm writing again, like I did... before. Not that you guys could possibly know. Not that you care._

_I sorta made amends with Charles- Danny's father. Danny... Daniel Pennington, the kid who's life I, y'know, ripped from his throat with my sai._   
_Shredda -I like ta call him Soupy, but you'd never understand that one- he arranged fer Danny's father and I to meet. I know it's a forbidden sort of thing there, 'cause mutants and humans don't really mix, but... for my own selfish guilt-ridden issues to be disbanded, I had to talk ta him. Had to tell him in person that I was sorry._   
_He freaked, as you can imagine. But it was even worse after I told him what I did. To Danny._   
_No apology or excuse I could come up with would've made it right. But I still tried. Oh, fuck, did I try._   
_Charles, he- he killed himself the next day... And that was all my fault._   
_If I would've just handled the guilt better, he'd just go on thinkin' his damn kid ran away; he'd still be alive. Worried and lookin', maybe, but still alive. Not dead. Not buried back behind the construction site. -I buried him myself. Had to. It was only right... for him to be buried near his son._   
_Two deaths, my fault. My own personal trophy shelf- or, erm, cemetery._   
_Sorry, morbid humor. Kinda comes with the territory._

_I gotta say, I don't do the apology-thing anymore, not after Charles decided that he liked the taste of a gun in his mouth._   
_Apologizin' is a waste of effort. Doesn't fix nothin'. Actions speak louder. Next time I take a life, I'll handle shit better._   
_Scout's honor. -Not that I was ever a scout, but I didn't wanna say 'ninja's honor.' Too much like somethin' you guys might say._

_I have a lot ta do. My own team to work with. But, when I'm done, maybe... Maybe I can come home? That is, if I'm still welcome._   
_I don't imagine the rat would appreciate me bein' there.  
'The rat,' doesn't that sound harsh? Well, maybe not harsh so much as indifferent._   
_But my thoughts are justified._   
_It's only been a month... but it feels like so much longer. Sometimes, I don't even feel like the same guy I used to be._   
_These thoughts are personal and shit, but... part of me wishes you guys could read it. Part of me wants to open this notebook, tear out all the pages, turn 'em inta paper airplanes and just let 'em go. Maybe they'd find ya, or you'd find 'em. Maybe you'd read 'em. Maybe you'd care._

_But if not, I don't have ta know. I can just sit here pretendin', like I've been doin'._

_Whatever. Just... be safe, guys. Bros, if I'm still allowed to call ya that._


	16. ch 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. -I also reference a song called White Rabbit by Egypt Central.
> 
> Author's Notes: In this chapter, we see what's going on with the other Turtles after a month without Raph. It just feels necessary.

**CH 15**

* * *

_[At the Lair]_

The team that had formed under the Splinter's tutelage was built out of necessity and function. It consisted of _four_ pillars, and each one had an important role and contribution that kept it balanced. The leader, with his strategy and honor and good sense of judgement. The brain, with his engineering and compassion and mental flexibility. The muscle, with his strength and recklessness and rash nature. And the heart, with his smiles, jokes, and immortal humor. While each cared for the well-being of their family and could be thoughtful and determined or stubborn to a fault, each had their role to fill and were expected to never stray far from it.

Fundamentally speaking, each were a potential building block to be stacked on top of or alongside one another, creating something incredible and effective and structurally sound.

Omitting one piece from the equation was a definite stress factor. Like playing Jenga and trying to remove a firmly-lodged block, the whole tower might wobble or topple.

Leo was just one pillar; without the rest of his team, he was nothing.

As leader, he needed to get his team back together as a whole. Failure was not an option.

Yet, with each passing day, it was becoming more and more obvious that somewhere along the line, Leo _had_ failed.

A month ago, everything had been fine, normal for them, even if the red-banded turtle had demonstrated his natural aggression; it was something they were all accustomed to, and they had dealt with it accordingly.

But, in Raph's absence, almost nothing was normal.

Leo sat at the kitchen table, his mask hanging down around his neck and the bags under his eyes tattling his lack of sleep. The tea in his cup and the toast in his stomach did little to comfort him, but at least it was something normal he could count on. Normalcy was something he needed, especially when he regarded how much things had changed in such a short amount of time.

Don stood by the coffee pot, already downing his fifth cup for the morning. His own mask on his face but doing nothing to hide his wide glassy eyes and the muted sorrow in them. His exhaustion worse than Leo's, he looked ready to fall over any second, wobbling on his own two feet as he clasped that broken cup between his hands like it was the only thing holding him up. Don's reason for exhaustion: he'd made a regular habit of spending his nights scouring the city for signs of Raphael, but so far he found nothing.

There were times when Don would even venture with Casey in their search. The purple-banded ninja would come home with bruises, but when addressed, he'd say something along the lines of: "Be reasonable, Leo. Would I go out and pick a fight to get information on Raphael's whereabouts? I think not." As he'd say this, Don would sound tired or even delirious.

Worse than that, Leo would have to remind Don "I didn't ask that. I asked if you remembered to pick up milk. Mikey likes milk. He asked for it."

And no, Don _never_ remembered the milk.

If Don's new behavior was worrisome, Mike's was at least ten times worse. The usually excitable turtle had changed drastically, becoming bitter, brooding, reflective, and with the slightest provocation, angry or tearful. When asked, Mikey would just get angrier before eventually breaking down into tears and confessing: "I just miss Raph. Him being angry all the time gives me a reason to try and cheer everyone up! Without him around, the smiles just fall flat. Unnoticed. Like, I don't matter. I feel like, if he's not around to be angry, someone else has to step up and do it... Leo's the leader. Donnie's the genius. And my spot on the team is replaceable. So, it's gotta be me. Our team -our family- it's not right without him!"

At one point, the orange-clad turtle had also launched into a hysterical explanation of how _"We're squares, bro. Squares! Without Raph, we're just a stupid triangle... Triangles suck... Four trumps three every time."_ No one questioned it. Because, despite how strange it was, it had made sense in a hysterical-Mike sort of way.

Mikey, the heart of the team. The joker, the videogame-playing prank-lover who went out of his way to serve as a buffer for his brothers' problems and shield them all from their ration of misery... but who would shield Mikey from his?

Michelangelo had taken it upon himself to patch up Raph's abused and over-used punching bag. Had even gone through the trouble of lugging it into Raphael's room. The only problem is, once Mikey went in, it was almost impossible to get him out.

In that room, they could all feel Raphael, as if pieces of him were clinging to the walls, the hammock, the weight bench. As if anything and everything in there was a reminder that Raph was alive and would be with them again... It filled them with hope, but with each day that passed with no sign from their brother, that hope just felt more like a burden, and it grew heavier and heavier until it was soul-crushing.

In respite, Mikey spent a lot of time in there, in that room, going through Raph's personal belongings... specifically the notebooks he found.

If Raph had known, he'd surely be pissed enough to go into another fit of white-out Raph-rage.

But Mikey didn't care, and neither Don nor Leo could bring themselves to pull him out of that room once he'd gone in. Worse yet was, when all was quiet, and the orange-banded brother thought no one could hear... he'd lock himself in that haunted room, slip on a pair of headphones, and sing. And it was nothing of the upbeat dance-mix he often favored. The voice certainly was reminiscent of Michelangelo, but the tone and words were nothing familiar as he belted: _"Your magic... white rabbit, has left its writing on the wall. We follow, like Alice, and just keep diving down the hole. You... can't fix your broken promise; Our ties have come undone...'_

No one called Mikey out on the obvious angst -not because they didn't care, but because they didn't want their own emotions and newfound behaviors to be brought into light and turned against them.

As for Splinter, his time for meditating had increased indefinitely in his redoubled efforts to search for his son's spirit, to guide him back home... or at least let him know that they all cared dearly. The few times he'd come close to contacting his son, he'd simply run into a wall. And, just as he feared, that wall was growing thicker and thicker, protecting the fragile thing inside but keeping out any and all potential sources of help.

Worse than that wall was when Splinter couldn't feel his son at all, as if he'd slipped away completely... The absence was nothing constant, so he was certainly alive, but the strength and passion that had once radiated so fiercely had dulled into something unspeakable and unnameable.

Damnable.

In the month that his son had been gone, Splinter's own paternal errors had come to light and weighed him down. Some days, he was reluctant to even wake up from the sleep that took away his worry and grief, but he pressed on each day... with hopes of being reunited and making amends with his rogue son.

As a mixed blessing, if only for the sake of them not being alone to bear the loss, the immediate members of the Hamato clan weren't the only ones affected by Raphael's absence.

April and Casey were also at odds with the world... and each other. April, at least, could be rational after she'd calmed down, but Casey was another story. The fights they got into often ended with one or both screaming and hastily retreating from the surface world and down into the lair, which was decidedly neutral territory. It was an unspoken and unwritten agreement, that they wouldn't fight once they set foot in the lair.

The lair... was a place to mourn and hope for Raph's return, not to say hurtful things.

Regardless, it was almost daily that Casey Jones would defend himself with the words: "But you guys will never understand! Raph's my pal! My best bud! April, the turtles all saved ya- they _always_ do, so yer obligated to like 'em. And you guys! You were all raised together, so it wasn't optional. But me and Raph, we made the choice to be buds, and... and I took it fer granted!"

The first time Casey had his breakdown, everyone had felt bad, but it soon became so commonplace that no one even bothered to verbally soothe him.

And, if Leo were to be honest, the whole ' _woe is me_ ' factor was grating on his nerves. Whining solved nothing. They needed a solid lead and a plan...

It was one of those times, that Casey had stomped into the lair with April close behind, but thankfully, it wasn't one with Casey throwing his own personal pity party.

"I got news," Casey said, his face bright and beaming, wide-eyed and teeth bared in an all too happy grin.

"If it's about hockey again," Leo began tiredly, only to be interrupted by April.

"No, Leo, it's about Raphael!" Her words, so hyped and full of hope. There was a laugh bubbling behind her tone as her eyes grew wet with tears she didn't bother to hold back.

Hearing this, the three turtles all started.

Leo's jaw became slack and indignant, unable to process what he'd heard.

Don's surprise caused his precious cup to slip from his hands and crash to the floor... hard enough to shatter it.

And Mikey stopped mid-grab of a cereal box, waiting with baited breath for whatever news was to come.

Finally having everyone's attention -minus Splinter, who was mid-trance- Casey blurted out "I met a construction worker who said that he not only seen a giant turtle with an attitude, but also talked to it! Said they got together twice in the last month for sandwiches and vodka!"

It sounded ridiculous, despite the hype and hope the humans had displayed.

For several painfully long seconds, no one said anything and the turtles exchanged measured looks.

Then, Mikey shrugged and grabbed his box of cereal, frowning at how light it was in his hand. That frown creased his browline and he suddenly scowled and turned his attention to Don. "Dooonniiiiiee," he drew the name out slow and carefully between clenched teeth. "Did you forget to get me cereal?"

Don shrugged, kneeling down and carefully collecting his fractured cup; his heart ached... to see that he'd broken something that had connected him to his missing brother: something that had helped him to understand his hotheaded sibling.

"Answer me, Don," Michelangelo released a low, rumbling growl that could only be perceived as a threat.

Don answered then, his voice soft, if not a little more detached than usual. "Just make something like you used to. Raph's the one who liked the convenience of cereal. And, you're not Raph. It does no one any good for you to act like him. If nothing else... it's upsetting. Almost like losing two brothers instead of one."

Don's honesty was well-intended, but his orange-banded brother only took in a distorted version that egged him on. "Filthy cunt!" Mikey snapped, seething, eyes narrowed as he curled his hands into fists... working so hard... trying... for all he was worth, to put himself into the blind rage his brother Raphie had slipped into so effortlessly.

Leo didn't bother to physically intervene. This, too, had become something to expect on a bad morning. He simply placed a hand over his eyes and took a deep cleansing breath before saying "Michelangelo, language. And, apologize to Donnie. Then, Don, apologize to Mikey because you obviously upset him. Leo-" he stopped, realizing that he'd almost given himself an order. He was too tired, too drained. He slowly removed his hand from his face and placed it on the table, using it to help hold his tired form in an upright position.

Don didn't apologize. He simply picked up the glass remnants of his cup and set it on the counter to be repaired later. _'Everyone's falling apart, but I'm still the Fix-It guy...'_ he thought, unsure of how to feel about it. So, he opted not to feel at all, to look at everything as simple, clean, and factual.

Mike, on the other hand, had given up trying to slip into his own rage-induced stupor in favor of leaping towards his purple-banded brother. He tackled him to the ground with menial effort, straddling him before slowly drawing back his own shaking fist... but, he never landed the blow. His hand gradually unfurled and his arm fell limp. His shoulders shook and he closed his eyes tightly, sniffling as his mask became wet against a flow of tears. Leaning over Don, still trembling, he sobbed "D-Donniiiie, I'm sorry... It's all f-fucked up! You need to... f-fix... it. W-We're bros! And you're the-the... the one who f-fixes things. Leo leads. You fix. I-I just... need... to..." and he broke down into another fit of hysterical sobs. When his breath stopped hitching and his cries fell into soft hiccups, he managed to say "I-I just... wanted... some cereal, Donnie. I'm sorry. I wanted some damn cereal. I bet Raphie isn't eating any fuckin' cereal... But... he likes cereal. What if he comes home... and there isn't any?!" Another burst of tears and an anguished cry later, he took a moment to calm down, then removed himself from his older brother before fidgeting and humming to himself. He needed comfort, but if his siblings offered, he'd lash out. On purpose. Raphael wouldn't take pity, and neither would Michelangelo.

Donatello's face was a careful mask of calm, cool detachment. As if he was completely unaffected by the display. He took his time getting to his feet, glanced almost mournfully at the broken cup, and walked out of the kitchen, mumbling something about glue.

April looked horrified. She'd seen the turtle-boys act out, but never to this degree.

Casey just gawked awkwardly, stunned before shouting "What the hell is wrong with you guys?! We get the first news on Raph in a month, and yer just blowin' it off and fightin' each other?! The lair is a neutral territory! Ya can't bring the negativity in! You-"

Just then, Leo got up from his chair, his eyes narrow and jaw set. His expression was both grim and serious as he roughly grabbed Casey by the wrist and proceeded to half-drag him from the kitchen.

April followed, concerned. "Leo?" she tried, but received no answer. Still, she followed.

Casey was too vexed and caught up in everything to really respond on the short trek, but he followed behind without giving protest as Leo led him... straight to Raph's room.

"W-We can't go in there!" Casey said suddenly, once he realized what Leo was up to.

The blue-banded turtle ignored the human vigilante's words and opened the door before pushing him inside. He followed a step behind.

Once in, Casey spun to face Leo, a glare hardening his features. "What the hell, Leo?!"

Leo stood there, head high, eyes boring into Casey's. With a slow, subtle shake of his head, he said "Look around, Casey."

And, with mild hesitation, Casey did.

Everything looked exactly as it should have. He'd expected the room to be all but sealed off, serving as a practical shrine to the missing turtle. But instead, Casey noted that it simply looked _lived-in;_ there was no accumulative dust or anything out of place... except for the stuffed turtle with the red bandana tied around its neck. It rested in Raph's hammock, looking far too cheery for anything Raph might own.

Upon seeing Casey focus on the toy, Leo explained "This is where Mikey spends most of his time, Casey. _Mikey_. Beating on Raph's punching bag or lifting Raph's weights. He refuses to sleep in here though because... he has nightmares, and this room... it's too much inspiration for him to create those nightmares. But Mike decided that he didn't want Raph's hammock to go unused, so...-" He unnecessarily gestured to the stuffed turtle.

Casey nodded slowly, processing what he heard but not quite understanding.

Leo continued. "Don doesn't sleep much, but when he does, he'll only sleep in here. The only thing he even does in his lab, is look for clues to Raph's whereabouts. And his experiments are all on some kind of hiatus."

Casey frowned as everything sank in. "So... I'm havin' myself a bitchy pity party... but you guys are constantly livin' with a reminder of what ya lost." He looked away, his expression one of shame. After a moment, he relaxed his face into something more complacent before turning to face the turtle once more. "What about you, Leo? How you holdin' up?"

For once, Leo lowered his gaze to the floor and scuffed his feet; he allowed the action, didn't even try to stop himself from the childish act. "What I do... is not your concern," he said carefully.

April stood in the doorway, eavesdropping. She hadn't been subtle, so it wasn't as if her companions had been unaware, and after hearing what she had, she held no remorse for listening in. She crossed her arms, the pose making her look more feminine, accenting her curves. "What I don't understand, Leo," she began, "is why you guys aren't jumping for joy over our find. It could lead us to Raph!"

Leo gave a small shrug before confessing. "April, I'll investigate, if you want, but... Donnie and Mikey... they can't handle another wild goose chase."

Casey rubbed his chin with a thoughtful expression. "Say, uh, Leo? Wouldn't that be a wild _turtle_ chase?" He laughed at his own joke, clapping Leo on the shoulder in an attempt to get him to join in.

His attempt was in vain, but April offered a small smile, grateful for Casey's intent.

Leo heaved an inaudible sigh. "We'll leave at dusk."

"Great!" Casey beamed. "Ape and I already discussed it. We can meet up at the place... with all the old stuff."

April moved her hands to her hips and focused a weak glare on her male counterpart. "The museum, Casey. The museum."

Leo gave a nod and turned away. "Fair enough, but I need to get some rest if we're heading out later. April, Casey, make yourselves at home, but be mindful of my brothers."

"I'll talk to Mikey," April said.

"I got Donnie-boy," Casey added with a sly grin, procuring a hockey stick from his sports bag. "Me and that bo of his got a score ta settle. Mano et sticko."


	17. Ch 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH 16**

* * *

_[With Raphael]_

_Sometimes, I wish there was another way out._

Those words were the only ones written on the page. Raphael had tried to follow it up, to pour himself, his grief and frustration, into his notebook, but the words wouldn't come. He could feel a wave of emotions within him, and it was dense, thick and drowning. Suffocating. Almost physically stealing his breath as he fought to reign control over himself, his misery, and worst of all... his small triumphs that somehow felt larger than life when given light.

Some part of him rationed that if he could just take what was inside and put it all into words, write it all down, then it would be more bearable. More like a bedtime story he never had to read, and less like the manifestation of internalized agony that sought to gnaw at him.

The term _'warble'_ briefly entered his consciousness. Warble, a parasite that usually took up residence in the throat or neck... and began to consume until it either had its fill or its host's head had come off completely, severed by the consumption, having been eaten from the inside out. It was a messy affair, coupled with disease and infection and the growth of bacteria -the smells of which would draw other disconcerting consumers and decomposers...

Emotions could very well be compared to parasites, Raph surmised with his face carefully blanked. Not out of necessity or habit, but out of sheer lack of having anything to express- which was, for him, an oddity.

There was no unrelenting rage. No stewing depression. No amusement. As he filtered through his thoughts one by one, he drew up empty of anything important... and yet, he could not bring himself to appreciate the absence of _feeling_.

He had a love-hate sort of relationship with apathy. It was safe but frustrating, and yet he couldn't feel the frustration or draw strength from it.

This realization left him further embittered- _'There we go,'_ he thought with his expression turning decidedly sour. _'Bitterness. Somethin' that doesn't go away, even if I stop acknowledging it. More constant than anger... Bitterness.'_

And he _was_ bitter.

Towards his family... Because they had everything. Each other. A father and sensei, a leader, a brain, and a heart... And Raphael had whatever was left.

Towards life... Because, really, what could be expected for a mutant turtle forced to believe that only darkness could offer him safety, that people were and always would be potential threats, and that any semblance to normalcy would always elude him?

That bitterness, of course, also extended towards his predicament and the man whom he so desperately wished to blame. That man, with his blades sharp and words sharper... was always getting to him with something or another. Whether it was some form of order, critique, or even kindness, everything felt like a direct attack. Something as simple as the offer of basic needs from him to Raphael seemed like bait, but the mutant knew better than to refuse -after the first time... he'd learned his lesson. And while the scarring was minimal, he found himself scathingly humbled.

But perhaps even more repugnant than his feelings towards the Shredder, was Raph's resentment towards himself. For allowing it all to happen. For blindly stepping into this man's foreboding shadow. For leaving behind everything he knew, and for simply... accepting it.

Then again, he also had to recall his reasons for it to begin with. All the blood. Red, too much red.

_'Guilt.'_

His need to protect his brothers and the innocence they possessed.

_'Love and desperation.'_

And because, once again he could relate the problem to his family, there it was again. That cold, stark bitterness.

So, Raphael focused once more on the notebook that contained his secrets.

If he could script it all, his ache and guilt could become a story. Fiction. Something to toss on a shelf (or under the bed) and forget about.

But there were no words, none that he could bring to light and jot down with his pen.

No words. None. Nada, zero, zip, zilch. Not for his predicament. And not for the terrible bout of homesickness that seemed to swallow him whole, spit him out, and then claw at his soggy remains.

Eventually giving up on his endeavor to write, he closed the notebook and tossed it under the bed, as per usual.

Under the bed... It wasn't a hiding place of any sort, he knew, but... there was a principle to what he did and where he liked to keep his journals. To him, it made sense... to hide monsters under the bed. To sleep with his demons below him.

In some distorted version of his own reality, he decided that keeping the journals in such a location could demean them and their damning contents. In a way, it gave their horrors less power over him... even if that line of thinking was just some kind of self-made placebo-mentality to protect his psyche.

It was a ridiculous thought, but it was one he held onto.

His notebook well and truly put away, imprisoning his thoughts, he slapped his pen to the desk and found himself with nothing to do. This was nothing new, surprisingly. He regarded his room. It had been immaculate on day one. Now, it was very much the same, save for the back wall that he had, on more than one occasion, grown restless and attacked viciously. Needing an outlet and having none. He'd stabbed and slashed at that poor defenseless wall for a small eternity before dropping his weapons and continuing the assault with his knuckles.

He stopped the beating only when his hands were quivering, bloody and raw and mangled, nerves reacting to pain that his mind refused to register.

Today would not be a day for wall-pounding, but it was an activity he'd easily become fond of.

His hands were still bandaged from the last bout of wall-bashing.

With a heavy sigh, he considered his options -because, as he'd been reminded, there were always options and the choice he made was his own. He quickly came to a decision and prepared to act on it. He grabbed a bandana that was becoming all too familiar and tied it around his arm in a hurry before exiting the room.

_'Gotta talk to Soupy. Shredda. Tin-Man... Whoever he is today.'_

Raphael was first and foremost a _one-punch_ kind of guy, but he could use his head when it suited him; and regarding the time of day, he easily deduced where would be the best place to look for his former foe.

As expected - _'Predictable bastard'-_ the mutant found the human in his throne room. As the name suggests, it was on the highest floor and the entirety of it could be described as regal, with its imported tapestry, oriental rugs, and priceless antique displays... Not to mention the over-dressed seat of plated silver and luxuriously over-stuffed cushions that drew center-focus.

"Greetings, _Your Highness_ ," Raphael mocked upon entry, his eyes immediately landing on the man and taking in his rather shiny appearance.

Shredder glared from behind his metal guise, quelling his distaste with the inhalation of a deep breath. "You wanted something, Raphael," he said carefully, eyes locked onto the turtle's.

Raph approached with a casual stride, stopping a few feet away from his alleged superior and planting his feet firmly on the ground before folding his arms over his plastron. The classic look of petulance. "Yeah, Tinny-Tin-Tin." He held up his bandaged hands for the other to see. "Ya wanted my service right? But I'm gettin' mighty restless over here. So, tell me, should I keep beatin' myself up with the wall, or would you rather me take it out on some of your Foot lackeys? Could be fun, and it would give yer medic a nice workout too." He paused, observing the Shredder and taking in the tense body language and filtered but audible breathing. "Then again," Raphael added, pretending his new words to be an afterthought and not his sole reason for bothering this man in the first place, "ya could always send me out tonight with my own team of Footies. Give me somethin' ta do. Me and the Foot, we need some bondin' time anyways. Can't do it properly all cooped up like dis. And trainin's gettin' stale. All flash and no heat. Now I get why the Foot wear masks with filtered lenses: so yer eyes don't burn from all the damn smoke pellets ya use. Ya buy that shit in bulk at Sam's Club or somethin'?"

Hearing the greeting, the reasoning, the excuse, the suggestion, and the accusation seemingly all at once, the Shredder held Raphael's gaze in a fierce stare while he took it all into consideration. And, eyes locked with one another, neither blinked; both were wanting and waiting for the other to avert their gaze first. A childish contest of will, but it was _still_ a battle of sorts.

A stare-down. Something the turtle had done with all his siblings when they were younger...

In the end, Raphael was the first to look away, not because of dry eyes or any sort of emotional spasm... Rather he was simply restless and quickly losing interest. He allowed his eyes to dart around the room, focusing on nothing in particular as he aimlessly fingered the hilts of each sai.

 _'Give me somethin' ta do. Otherwise, it's a complete waste ta have me here. Why have a mutant ninja at yer disposal and not do somethin' with **it**?' _ Raphael's own thoughts caught him by surprise. He could understand the restless thinking and desire to be productive, but... while he'd accepted the fact that he was a mutant and a freak, he'd never referred to himself as an ' _it_ ' before. Part of him wondered if it was a conscious thought or a Freudian slip of the mental variety. Another part of him tried to brush it off, and he allowed the dismissal.

After a long hard moment of silence, Shredder spoke to the conflicted mutant, his voice stern. "I am not confining you against your will, Raphael. If you wish to go out with your faction of the Foot, so be it. However, I _do_ have a specific task for you to complete, if you're interested."

Interest piqued at the idea of any kind of action, Raph's blood pulsed with sheer excitement; he refocused on Shredder and waited. He curled his toes and held his breath, waiting... and waiting... and... waiting?

Nearly three whole minutes passed before Raphael expelled his breath and fixed a confused and impatient expression onto his face. "Well? What is it?"

The metal-coated man brought both hands up and, with one he removed the menpo face mask; with the other, he removed his helm; he placed both articles on a decorative stand. Armor still in place but too-human face bared, he appeared thoughtful as he looked to the turtle and spoke. "I'm... afraid I can't tell you, Raphael, until you prove you are ready. For you to do that, I want respect, which you show very little of."

"Respect, hn?" Completely unperturbed by the sight of the man's face -something that had initially caused a great deal of stress, Raphael frowned at the words and implication. "I ain't jammin' my sai into yer neck," he said bluntly. "Ain't that respect enough?" When he received no answer, he tried to understand just what was being asked. "Ya want me to drop the goofy nicknames?"

"That's a start," Shredder answered.

"Anythin' else, Princess-uh... -What I mean is, uh, Shredda. Oroki Soku- or whatever."

"Oroku Saki," the armored man corrected, impatience notable in his tone and the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"Same thing," Raph defended carelessly, dismissing his mistake with the wave of a hand. "All Asian names sound alike ta me. Just be glad I'm not callin' ya Kung Pao Chicken... So, now that we're on better terms, what kind of thing ya want me ta do tonight?"

Shredder was silent for an immeasurable amount of time before simply saying: "I'm not satisfied. Proper respect, or I will send someone else."

"But-" Raphael began, eyes slightly wide at the idea of having this small chance taken away from him.

Because, among so many other dislikes, Raphael _hated_ having something taken from him, almost as much as he _hated_ sharing. Having grown up with three brothers, it was inevitable... so he'd always made sure he was the one to do the taking whenever possible, and his possessive nature was something he couldn't let go of.

It was just as much a part of him as the color of his skin or the weight of his shell...

He was stolen, again, from his thoughts by Shredder's voice. A single word that, despite the easy tone, spoke volumes upon volumes of expectation and horror and greed and arrogance. That one word: "Kneel."

The word -no, the _command_ \- struck a deep chord within Raphael, making him queasy and sick.

"Kneel, Raphael," the command was repeated, this time more forcefully.

And, still trying to process what this order meant -what was truly being asked- Raphael found himself stooped over on his knees with his head low and eyes directed at the floor... A familiar position he'd reserved for only his sensei. He hadn't even processed the movement, nor planned on obliging the order, but his body seemed to act on its own. His memory had connected the word with the position and his muscles complied.

Once down and acknowledging what he'd done- the fact that he'd _obeyed_ \- he refused to look up and see a possibly smug look on the man's face. His chest felt tight and wrong. His breath caught between his throat and lungs but he forced the air in and out in a controlled flow.

Suddenly, he was aware of a five-fingered hand on his shoulder. There was no radiating warmth, but he drew comfort from the weight of it. Only when he felt that comfort did he raise his head and allow his eyes to meet that of the human.

"Well done, Raphael," he said simply. His hand rested and was removed with perfect timing to avoid awkwardness or tension. "Now, about your assignment. It will be one of stealth. You will take no less than three and no more than five Foot with you."

"Four," Raph concluded.

"I have taken liberty of hiding a specific item among a display in the museum. The museum closes early, and you will be retrieving the item tonight."

Raphael blinked. His kneeling position forgotten as he focused on what was being said. "So, is it like a paintin' or artifact or somethin'?"

"You will know the item when you see it. You get no hint other than that, Raphael. You are smarter than you pretend to be. Use that brain of yours."

The turtle frowned, his eyes showing doubt. "I don't steal. We've been over this."

"It's not stealing. It is my own item that I simply stored there. And you will pick it up and bring it back to me. There is nothing illegal going on here-"

"Except for breaking and entering," Raph interjected.

"Which is nothing new to you, I'm sure," Shredder said with a snide tone. "If you don't want this assignment-"

"Okay," Raph said, eyes veering off to the left to avoid looking at the man. "I wanna do it."

"Just simple retrieval. First and foremost, your mission is to practice stealth with the Foot under your command. Do not trigger alarms or be caught on camera. Do not alert any personnel to your presence."

The mutant took in the words and his browline creased in thought. "But stealth and finesse ain't any of my finer points; they're actually my dullest," he deadpanned. "If strength is a blade, then all that careful strategy shit is like foam rubber ta me."

That careful five-fingered hand once again was on Raphael's shoulder, this time with added pressure, but there was no comfort; it was a warning. "Stealth first. Retrieval second. How you go about this matters little to me. Fail, and suffer the consequences."

With a small sigh, Raph grumbled: "At least it's somethin' ta do."

Suddenly, that hand was gone and Shredder spoke indifferently as he said "You may rise, Raphael."

Almost instantly, the mutant was on his feet. He frowned at his body's obedience. He didn't like it. Part of his mind screamed for him to say something smug or snarky, to spit out something crude or sarcastic, to openly defy... but another part of him reasoned against it, reminding him that he'd chosen his fate. He'd stepped onto this path of new shadows. And he could blame no one but himself. And, a little humility would serve as retribution.

Caught up in his thoughts, Raphael's attention was pulled back to the man as he spoke once more.

"Stop living in your head, Raphael. There is a time to think and a time to let go. Now, come. I will prepare you for your mission and you can plan accordingly with your Foot. Any success you have will be in young Pennington's honor."

And... _there_ it was. _Pennington_. The reminder. The motivation. The sorrow... The intense swell of emotions that finally reached beyond his chest to manifest itself physically.

With a soft growl, body tense, and head throbbing with sudden stress, Raphael watched the Shredder grab and don his kabuto and menpo before making a slow and graceful exit.

Raphael followed several feet behind.

Two floors down and into a room that was all leather and steel and pristine sterility, Raphael sat at a small table across from Shredder, blueprints laid out before him.

"I suppose you can read this without me explaining it to you," the man mocked with his voice once again filtered through a metal grating.

Raph opened his mouth to retort but thought better of it, simply nodding instead.

"Then, I will leave you to your planning. The cameras and access points are all marked. There should be no problem."

Raph nodded and allowed his eyes to scan the blueprints; it was fairly standard, from the looks of it. Doors, windows, ventilation ducts, cameras at the turn of every hall and entryway... Then he began to note the locations of each room, considering which display might hold the item he needed to scavenge. Then...

"Oh, Raphael, another thing."

At hearing himself addressed, the turtle looked up, blinking twice to show the clarity of his focus and attention. Then he heard more than seen an item being placed on the table. His gaze flickered over to it, seeing a large ring of metal with an odd electronic device attached, equipped with a microphone.

That size and shape of the item in question coupled with the sight of the microphone gave a clue as to what it was, and Raphael voiced his first thought. "A headset? I dunno, this looks more up Donatello's alley. Ya might got the wrong turtle fer dis," he said without thinking.

His damn mind referenced his family far too often for his liking, stirring up feelings he tried to repress. But it couldn't be helped that his brothers were hardwired into his brain.

Shredder allowed a strange sort of chuckle before explaining, "The masks of the Foot ninja are being fitted with transceivers. Your headset will transmit and allow communication. While it is not something I want you to rely on, it will certainly come in handy."

Raph grumbled something unintelligible before shaking his head and drawing his attention back to the blueprints.

With a hum of approval, Shredder rose to his feet and turned to the door, pausing a moment to get one last word in. "And Raphael, you will be leaving all other equipment behind. No protective-wear or weapons. The Foot ninja with you will be well prepared and armed accordingly, and while I know you could handle yourself, I want you to _trust_ them to have your back. After all, you are a _team_ , are you not? Trust is something that must be forged." And finally, he was gone, exiting the room and leaving Raphael with a splitting headache.

Once alone, Raph's hands flew to his sais, feeling their hilts and taking in a small amount of comfort at acknowledging their presence.

With a great deal of effort, he looked back over the blueprints, expression unreadable.

_'A trip to the museum with my Footies tonight. Simple retrieval. Boring, but better than nothing.'_


	18. Ch 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH 17**

* * *

_[Journal Entry]_

_Growing up in that oppressive hell, it was easy not to expect much outta life. Fuck, back then, the streets were the closest thing I had to a sky._   
_Then, I went topside. We all did. The street- our sky- suddenly became something beneath our feet. For just that moment, we were as close to God as mutants could get. Well, maybe that's a bad way ta put it, but ya get the point. We felt larger than life, even though the new world was so huge; we towered over everything we ever knew, stood above it. It was... somethin' indescribable._   
_I remember the first time I curled my toes against the pavement, so similar but so different from the cold damp floors we were used to..._   
_I just remember standing in that alley, only a few feet away from the manhole. I remember looking down at the asphalt and thinking it was somethin' amazin'._   
_Then, lookin' up, the sky above was almost like what I imagined heaven ta be. If I believed in heaven, that is._

_The first time on a rooftop with my brothers... I could see the panic in Leonardo's eyes, even if he tried to hide it. He'd never been up so high up before. But, like everythin' else in life, Splinta Jr conquered that fear of heights; conquered it head on, once again provin' how fuckin' perfect he was._   
_Y'know, for a minute, it was nice... ta see him scared. To see him come undone just a bit. But I'd never tell him. And now I'll never get the chance to. After all, I call him 'Fearless' fer a reason._   
_But, fuck Fearless. He can take his precious katana and shove it where the sun don't shine fer all I care._

_...Nah, that ain't right. He's... still my brother. Can't be thinkin' like that._

_I just... need to focus on something else. That time- That first time on a rooftop. That's right. I remember how the sky looked. I remember standin' there and, when everyone had their shell to me and I knew they couldn't see, I reached up... kinda... sorta... pretendin' ta touch the stars. The light pollution took away much of the atmosphere, but it was still somethin' special._

_If I could relive any moment in life, it'd be that one. That first real taste of freedom._   
_The very same freedom... that I gave away._

_[End Journal Entry]_

With those last words, Raphael's pen tore through the paper, the nib snapped and ink bled over the notebook and onto the desk, the mess catching the turtle's emerald hands and staining them an ugly blue. He let out an indignant cry of frustration as emotion ripped through him; he chucked the pen as hard as he could and tried to find satisfaction in the way the splintered plastic became embedded in the wall.

He breathed heavily, holding back a feral growl as he glared at his blue-stained hands. The only positive thing he could focus on was the fact that the ink was too dark to match his eldest brother's mask.

Raphael suddenly hated the color blue... It wasn't any kind of special. It mocked the color of the sky he couldn't get enough of; the sky he could only live under as a part-time resident. Simply because he was neither human nor animal.

He was a mutant.

A freak.

An accident.

An unwanted being caught up in the art of ninja and pushed into a war between feuding clans.

A tool of destruction and hypocrisy. Because, for someone who loved his family enough to sacrifice himself, he was admittedly quick to desert them.

 _'What the fuck does that even mean?!'_ He thought bitterly, unable to stop a scowl from claiming his face and warping it into something less than settling. _'I left, but they didn't even come aftah me. For all I know, it's better fer them. Better that I'm gone. Not challengin' Leonardo's fuckin' leadership. Not breakin' Donatello's techno-garbage. And not flippin' out on Michelangelo's stupidity... Yeah. S'better this way. Better fer me ta be gone... but that doesn't mean I don't miss you guys, even if ya probably don't miss me.'_

Raphael's thoughts had dropped him into a fit of despair. The anger he'd felt dissipated, and he was left feeling hurt, guilty and neglected. Realization of his feelings added a stab of frustration to the mix, and the combination twisted within his gut, making him feel sick.

Not too long ago, he'd been so aptly hyped about his pending mission, regardless of its simplicity. He'd tinkered with his new headset, met up with his selective team of Foot, and then retired to his room to mentally prepare for the nightly run.

He did an even count of situps and pushups and presses, working his shoulders, chest, and triceps to help expend energy and gear his mind in the right direction.

After a brief workout that didn't even cause him to work up a sweat, he seated himself at the desk with the intent to write whatever came to mind, preferably something pleasant that would keep him in a fair mood for the outing to come, but the moment he opened that notebook, all his 'feel-goods' seemed to fade -not all at once, but in stages.

Thoughts of his mission easily led him to thinking about his current residence and how it all came to be. Then, his thoughts flew to his family, and for the life of him, he couldn't understand why they hadn't come after him that first night.

It seemed forever ago, after all he'd been through since then. Seemingly, a whole other lifetime of memories had taken place in such a short amount of time. In the absence of his brothers and sensei, a moment of weakness could almost lead him to thinking of the Foot as family. The way they regarded one another when unmasked... and the fact that, even when their faces were covered, he'd learned to tell them apart. No longer were they faceless nobodies. Instead, he could look at each one and see a person beneath, and he knew those people. The people who asked him for help on History homework. People who sometimes struggled in combat or relied too heavily on smokescreen. The people who tripped one another in he halls when someone had their guard down -then laughed about it good-naturedly. The people who ate together and slept packed into rooms like dogs in a puppy mill. The people who got pissed off at Flappy Bird... (and yes, Raph had also come to know and hate Flappy Bird as well... because the damn thing didn't look like a bird, and it loved to nose-dive into everything.)

Only the ' _Elite_ ' were granted higher privileges, and somewhere in the midst, Raphael had found himself in the good graces of similar luxury. Those privileges were a mixed blessing that often left him bored. Too much time in his own room left him with too much time to think. And, worst yet was the occasional morning meeting with the man who had taken him in with the promise of restoring his moral integrity.

The morning meetings were infrequent but awkward. Raphael would be expected to sit at a table across from the man he knew as Shredder while they spoke civilly over a meal that was arranged very much like a banquet. If that alone wasn't grounds for the affair to be uncomfortable, Raphael could clearly recall their first morning meeting, during which the human neither wore the familiar armor nor his traditional 'everyday' attire. Instead, the turtle recalled with horrific clarity, the fuzzy duck-themed bath robe and matching slippers that _quack-quacked_ with every step...

_"Yer gettin' soft on me, Soupy. First ya ditch the armor, and now this duck-lovin' bullshit... Kinda hard ta respect ya like that."_

It was wrong, on all accounts. The man was supposed to be some heinous abomination of a man, and yet, Raphael was forced to acknowledge that he _was_ , in every way, shape, and form... still human.

The thought was sickening, but also grounding. And some small part of Raphael couldn't help seeing it as an element of trust. It made him a little less wary; he could almost admit that much. But he'd never voice it. And the less frequent he met with the man in such a state, the more comfortable he'd feel, but the image was firmly lodged in his mind and would remain indefinitely.

Just one more memory to add to his own personal internal drive.

With an abrupt shake of his head, Raphael literally shook the thought from his mind. He had far too much to focus on, too many wandering thoughts. He needed his mind to be sharp. He needed to get himself together and focus.

And focus, he did. But the thoughts that came to mind were once again unwelcome.

 _'I could've gone home.'_ He was frowning deeply at these thoughts. _'Just one more time. If you'd have asked, I'd have come home. But ya didn't even try...'_ As much as he loved his brothers, the darker parts of his mind were more than capable of distorting the other half of the equation, and he couldn't help wondering if the familial love he gave so selflessly was ever returned.

From a more logical standpoint, he knew each of his brothers had been there for him at some point or another, even when he didn't want them to be, but his more emotional side reminded him once again that they didn't even try to stop him from walking straight into the Shredder's shadow... and staying there.

A small voice in the back of his mind questioned if they even cared for his absence.

He glared at his over-inked Journal. Thoughts of his former team had soured his pleasant mood, and for once, writing it all down did nothing to deter his angst. Instead, putting it in words actually fueled his grief. He grabbed up the notebook and hurled it in the same direction he'd tossed the pen prior, slamming a fist against the desk's surface when he couldn't find any release for the steadily building tension.

He gulped in air, wishing he could freeze his thoughts or clear his head.

His only hope, he surmised, was the pending mission of stealth and retrieval.

Surely it would take his mind off things, ease his thoughts on the family that didn't want him. The family he walked away from...

...

Later towards the evening, Raphael's persistent bad mood had all but vanished after a couple swallows of the familiar drink he kept in a silver flask. The flask had been a gift from his overweight friend from the construction site, and he treasured it more than he thought possible. It was so simple, very plain in its design, but he'd used the tip of a sai to chisel the Foot insignia onto it.

He never thought he'd find that symbol as anything more than a nuisance, but he'd accepted it as part of his life. As part of him... for as long as he fought for redemption.

Taking another hefty swig of the burning drink, he let out a slight cough before sealing the flask and stashing it away. He was weak, he knew, to give in and use any kind of substance to cope; to mute his thoughts, his own personal non-physical aches and agonies, but one thing the turtle refused to do... was openly admit the weakness. After all, he didn't deny the pain; he was simply making it more tolerable. The fact that he enjoyed the burning throat and the pooling heat in his stomach was simply a bonus.

Besides, he'd only drank enough to take the edge off; he was still clear-headed. If anything, he was more in control, more alert, more adept for the mission he was undertaking.

His negative emotions having tapered off into something more manageable, the turtle couldn't help the lopsided grin that fell into place, nor the excitement that began to swell within as the the daylight faded into something more acceptable for a night of ninja-ing. _'Because, fuck yes! Ninja-ing is a fuckin' verb,'_ his thoughts transient and spirits high, seemingly nothing could break his good mood. Despite his lack of gear and the unforgettable absence of his sais, he felt alive as he exited Foot Central and crept into the night, shadowed by his own four solid shadows.

Stepping into the world- a world that was so simple and meaningless to most people, taken for granted- Raphael simply felt... content. No bitterness or rage. Just a hollow feeling of 'alright' and a fixation of the pending task.

For a long and peaceful moment, the feeling of freedom returned; his breath came easier and easier and his mind was perfectly at ease despite his position. Something about the crisp night air against his leathery flesh... it was almost harmonizing.

His shell pressed against the wall as he remained hidden among the darkness, Raphael tapped his headset to activate it. Suddenly, the cycloptic-lens over his eyes became an active display. His hand remained on the control panel that rested against his right temple as he adjusted the settings; he'd tried it earlier but this was his first chance to try it outside and in the dark. His large fingers slid across the screen of the panel and, as he turned his head to look left and right, the display zoomed and focused, outlining various objects and bodies; his new vision stained in infrared. Adjusting the settings with the flex of a finger against that panel, his screen became littered with numbers; at first, the sight of so many numbers had caught him off guard, but after taking a moment to really read them, they appeared to give the dimensional lengths, volume, and weight of various objects that came into focus, as well as the distance between said objects and himself.

Incredible, really, if he had to admit.

But numbers and himself weren't compatible, and he switched the setting back to the odd contrasting colors of infrared. He took a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the new swim of orange and red and yellow as he took in the spectrum of wavelengths and radiation... It was almost as if everything he looked at was bathed in the colors of sunrise.

 _'Donatello would love this.'_ He fought back a smile easily enough before mentally berating the thought. _'But Donatello's not here. It's just me. And my Foot. My family can just stay outta this. It's my mission, even if it's a stupid one. It's mine, dammit.'_ With a hint of finality, he turned to the black-clad ninja that flanked him.

The ninja were properly ensconced in the veil of darkness, but his display screen pointed them out easily enough. Their outlines flaming red-orange, their entire selves born again in bright neon colors.

Forcing his acute fascination at bay, he spoke into the microphone, knowing that each ninja would hear him clearly through the transceivers. "Alright. Museum is less than a block away. We get there. We take out the cameras first. The wires can be clipped with well-aimed shuriken. Collect 'em afterwards; leave no evidence. I'll be watchin' from the roof. The main mission is stealth. Keep shit simple. At least one of ya will enter through the back entrance on the south-side. Two of you will go through windows- don't break the glass because it'll trigger an alarm; just cut the damn panes instead. Last one will come with me, and we'll take a ventilation duct from the access point on the roof. I ain't armed, so I need someone ta watch my back. We clear?"

He received no response aside from a few sharp nods; then again, he hadn't expected anything different.

"We get in, do our scavengin', and get out. Nice and easy. I'll work on disablin' the alarms once we get in. This fancy headset-thing should be able ta help with the electronic bullshit."

 _'I'd rather go straight in ta cut the power, but I guaran-damn-tee they have a backup generator for emergencies,'_ Raphael couldn't help thinking as he recalled the blueprints he'd studied. And he _had_ studied hard in preparation before removing his gear when prompted.

Because, in the past, when he had a regular mission with his brothers -his old team- the planning, the mapping, the ins and outs of everything would be done by Leonardo and Donatello; back then, all Raphael needed to do, was show up, get worked up, and throw himself into the mix wherever he felt it might be beneficial.

In hindsight, it was no wonder he was seen as the blindly aggressive muscle. After all, that's all he was needed to be; his alleged family never bothered to see beyond his physical build and the brooding angst that he channeled into rage...

But circumstances had drastically changed. Now, he was filling the shoes of the leader _and_ the engineer, and all the while, even when weaponless, he desired to continue to keep up his role as the muscle as well.

Then again, with a stealth mission, he doubted he'd have to exercise anything more than his brain, and his mood dampened a little at this realization. Because, he never was the leader or the brain. Those were not his domain. And yet... it seemed cardinal, non-optional, that he expand his skill sets and put forth more effort... for the sake of his new team. And maybe, for the late Pennington's honor...

He pushed his thoughts aside. Family, Foot, and honor issues could only get in the way. The mission now was one of stealth. To be successful meant no conflict, no awareness to anyone outside himself and his team. With a draw of breath, he regarded said team. "Now, any questions?"

No answer. Which Raphael took for meaning 'no complaints or objections.'

"Good," he affirmed, more to himself than his team. "One last thing..." His voice, while quiet, took on a distinctly familiar edge -his own version of a _leader-voice_ , as he said: "We're a team. We're fuckin' ninja. Who... and _what_... we are to the rest of the world doesn't matter; the moment we set out together, all that matters is the team, the goal, and all that unity bullshit. Goin' inta this, I want _no Foot left behind_. We go in together, and we come out together."

The mutant never imagined he'd be doing this, calling the shots, giving a speech -he'd imagined, dreampt it even, but it hardly seemed a possibility unless his blue-banded brother found himself out of commission, and even then, the purple-clad genius would likely fill he slot...

In his wildest fantasies, Raphael never could have concocted a scenario where he'd be breaking into a museum to scavenge an item in exchange for praise from his sensei's foe. And he especially never imagined that he'd be playing leader to a group of ninja he once thought of as faceless drones.

But now he knew better.

Beneath those masks, there were actual _people_. Young people with their own thoughts, feelings, conflicts, and desires. Their lives were in his hands. As leader, any triumph or failure would be his own doing. And with grudging effort, he could accept that.

His resolve, thought with affinity and a steely-eyed gaze beneath his mono-lens: _'I ain't gonna fail. Simple as that. In. Out. Complete mission with all four Footies in tact.'_

His words lain out, Raphael moved with restless agility from shadow to shadow, his Foot soldiers in tow.

They happened upon the museum, taking in the flow of human traffic.

Raphael couldn't help the growl that escaped, a low rumbling sound of irritation at a personal error in judgement. Despite his knowledge of the city and its activity, he'd somehow imagined that humans would be more... sparse. In his mind as he planned, he just envisioned the building and the layout, almost completely forgetting that there was an entire world around it.

 _'Well,'_ he thought to himself, a wry grin warping his face. _'This'll either be interestin', or a disaster.'_

He carefully watched the flow of traffic, the spread of humans, before looking around and pointing to a nearby roof. On his signal, his ninja exercised their acrobatics as they made their way up a darkened fire escape and waited for further command.

Raphael remained hidden at street level, adjusting the settings at his fingertips as he waited with frail patience. The museum was so close, but he hadn't any disguise to protect himself from prying eyes. Only the shadows could offer him safety. He couldn't allow himself to be spotted.

Once he saw a clean break between the flow of humans, he spoke clearly into his mic. "Now. Take the roof on your left. Next, the one straight ahead. From there, await my signal. Then double back and onto the museum's roof. Once there, one of you will remain and wait fer me while the others fan out to take care of cameras and work their entries."

From his perch, Raphael watched and signaled and, with flawless effort, he guided the Foot and his team listened. In no time at all, he watched through his hyper-focused lens as the four ninja landed on the roof of the museum. Then, satisfied with the small success, he turned his head left and right, again tracing over traffic patterns as he prepared to join his team.

He'd just caught a break in the flood of humans and was about to make a move when a voice suddenly drew his attention. One very... distinct... voice.

"Ah, shut up, ya bonehead! I'm comin'!"

Hearing this, the turtle's eyes widened. ' _Bonehead? -That voice...- Casey!'_ Raph's thoughts were short, sharp, and certain, much like the blades of the weapon he lacked. All logic screamed for him to ignore the voice and press on, but... something held him back. Whether it was curiosity or the strange tight feeling in his chest, he couldn't say.

He turned his enhanced vision towards the source of the voice and, sure enough, he could easily spot the masked vigilante.

Raphael couldn't help the pounding in his chest as a new realization dawned on him. _'If Casey's here... he might not be alone.'_ Just as those thoughts entered his mind, Raph's attention flew to the rooftops just in time to see three new shadows leap and land a few roofs away from his own group of ninja.

And, even without he headset, Raphael was certain he knew those new shadows, the distinct shapes of bulk muscle and shell...

He needed to think of something, fast.

Into his microphone: "Ninja, do not engage. Vanish- _NO smokescreen_ ; it would draw too much attention. Vanish, and await my signal." After that, Raph watched his own four Foot disappear, their location only notable with his enhanced infrared optics. He focused his gaze elsewhere and relocated Casey.

The human vigilante was out of earshot, but Raphael could tell he was talking into a phone, to somebody. Possibly April or one of the other turtles. It was a tough thing to guess, so Raphael didn't make any assumptions. Instead, he kept quiet, hidden, his attention split between Casey, the three turtles, and his own faction of Foot.

His head was starting to pound from stress, but he quelled it well enough.

Finally, at long last, after such a vile and intense moment of anxiety, Raph was able to breathe a sigh of relief as Casey moved further away and the three other turtles made their leave with the intent to join him.

When the coast was clear of decided foe and civilians, Raphael finally allowed himself to execute a few flips to get to the fire escape before scaling. His senses flaring with paranoia, he followed the same route he'd previously directed to his team. Once his feet were solidly planted on the roof of the museum, he spoke to his mic: "Ninja, fall in. Three of you take out the cameras; one of you come and join me."

A moment later, a single black-clad ninja jumped and landed next to Raphael. The turtle pointed to the ventilation system and approached. He tapped it and signaled his lone Foot. Without the need for a verbal command, the black-clad ninja approached, procured a multi-tool, and proceeded to pry open the grate. After that, Raphael quietly moved in, his Foot following close behind as they crawled through the ducts.

In Raph's mind, he recalled the blueprints, trying to mentally map out where the security room was. One wrong turn and many right turns later, he found it. His underling once again pried open a grate and they both dropped in, silent, ninja-like.

First thing Raphael did was look over the array of monitors, seeing almost all cameras full of static, white noise. Which meant their wires had been successfully clipped. He waited idly while another one went out before his eyes. With a nod of approval, he moved towards the computers that worked all the electronic locks and alarms.

A plight of apprehension came over him, but he pushed it aside and feigned confidence.

He would not fail this mission due to his lack of computer know-how.

He dropped into a chair in front of the computers and reached a hand for a hidden compartment under the panel of his headset. He slid the juncture and pulled out a micro-cable. He attached one end to a port in his headset and the other to the USB drive of the main computer.

In an instant, his vision and display was flooded with code that he couldn't begin to decipher, but the computer monitor before him flashed in warning before a message popped up, reading: _CAMERAS DOWN. ALARMS DOWN. SYSTEMS DOWN._ And the monitor went black.

With a breath of relief, Raphael retrieved the cable and slid it back into its slot before closing the compartment. His heart had been pounding, but it seemed to relax with the lessening of stress.

When he got up from the chair and turned, he saw -not one, but FOUR Foot soldiers lined up in the doorway. Silent, stealthy. His ninja... all waiting for him. For his signal. His command. His guidance.

There was a feeling of warmth and respect that had nothing to do with the previously-consumed alcohol as he regarded his team.

_'They're actually relying on me...'_

Not speaking directly into the mic, he told them: "Fan out and search. Look for anything Shredda might have left behind. Clues, objects, whatever."

With that, his ninja left, each slinking along halls and ducking into pools of shadow to remain hidden during their quest. Raphael himself wasn't far behind, heading down the first hall he could see and entering an exhibit.

He took in his surroundings. Various animal pelts, cave paintings, foot castings of the earliest known humans, bones of every size, and then a series of dino skeletons ranging from partially-to-fully complete. Each display had it's own history article, riddled with facts and names Raphael couldn't be bothered to read. After he'd taken in the generic information first and foremost, he deepened his search, looking for anything out of place. He traversed first to the back of the exhibit with the dinosaur bones.

Due to the endless number of possibilities, he peered into the ribcage of some large foul beast, wondering if something had been hidden. A riddle or a clue, anything. He came up empty and continued his search. He glanced skywards, looking among the light fixtures and rafters- but again, nothing that neither his eyes nor infrared lens could pick up. Slowly, he made his way back towards the caveman figures and pelts. Still looking, he spoke into the mic: "If anyone finds anythin', alert me immediately. Don't leave me searchin' fer somethin' I ain't gonna find."

The moment those words left his mouth, something caught his attention.

There.

Beneath a glass pane.

Right next to the casting of a particularly large _Foot_ print left by an allegedly ancient homo sapien.

Next to that plaster casting... was a shiny metal briefcase with a tag attached to the handle. In red ink, the tag simply read: "STEALTH MISSION ONE."

Raph couldn't help the sinking feeling that it had all been so anticlimactic. All the dramatic buildup for something as boring as a briefcase. Suddenly disheartened, if not a bit _bored_ , he gave up on stealth and simply punched a hole into the glass, shattering it with the force of the blow. He grabbed the case and spoke into the mic: "Item secured. Ninja, move out. Exit through the south-side. From there, take the streets east. Back ta Central."

...

* * *

_[Eariler... Outside the museum]_

"C'mon, Bonehead, y'know I'm just lookin' out fer you guys."

"Casey," the blue-banded turtle said evenly, his expression stern, "I wanted to leave Mikey and Don home. If this lead is a dead end, it'll crush them. I know it's not fair, but as leader, decisions have to be made, even if they're tough. For the good of the team-"

"Leo, what about what's good for the _family_?" It was Don's voice. His eyes wide and caring. "We lost one brother. What if we lose you too?"

"Don-Don's got a point, bro!" Mikey piped, his chipper expression too forced and tone too cheerful. "You want me to stop acting out, then let's find Raph. For Raph, I'll really try. Like, crazy hard, I'll try to be the happy one again." He paused, expression suddenly darkening. His voice lowered as he said: "Hey... What if... Uhhh, what if Raph didn't just run away? Ever think of that?" He paused again. "I've thought about it a few times. Thought about... like... I dunno. Like, what if Raph-"

April approached, a frown in place; she didn't like the negativity coming from the usually jubilant turtle. "Mikey..." Her voice was soft, worried. "You know Raphael. He wasn't suicidal. He's not the type to-"

The orange-banded ninja gave a frantic shake of his head as he interrupted his human friend. "No, I mean... what if... he got hurt or captured? What if we never see him again? He could be hurt and all alone..."

Donatello approached next and placed a comforting hand on Michelangelo's shoulder. "We can't think like that, Mike. Raph's tough. He's okay. We need to remember that, and we need to follow any lead we can get."

Leonardo regarded his team- his family- and couldn't help the smile that formed as he recognized their sense of unity. "We'll speak to this construction worker, as Casey arranged. But I promise, even if it turns out to be a false lead, we won't give up. We won't quit on Raph."

Mikey shrugged Don's hand off his shoulder and shuffled his feet awkwardly. "So, uh... for old time's sake, anyone up for a high-three?"

Don raised his hand halfway but paused, hesitant.

Leo continued to smile, glad his brothers were at least making a valid attempt to shun their misery in favor of finding their missing sibling. "Yeah," he said finally, "high-three." He raised his hand to meet that of his youngest brother, and Don joined in at the last second.

The family moment was broken when Casey drew a hockey stick and pointed. "There! That's the worker-dude that says he knows Raph! I _knew_ he'd show up! The big guy said he had a hard time believin' there was other giant turtles in the city!"

Hearing this, April gawked momentarily before slapping Casey on the arm as a way to reprimand. "Casey! You don't go around telling everyone about the turtles! What if it was a trap?!"

True to his genuine love for movies and impersonations, Mikey drew his fingers under his chin and wiggled them -pretending them to be a 'squid-beard' as he mocked: " _IT'S A TRAP_!"

Ignoring Mikey in favor of focusing on April's insinuation, Casey sputtered indignantly before turning away with a huff. "If it means findin' my pal, and no one gets hurt, it's worth the risk, ain't it?"

Leo's face morphed into something dark and unsettling, angry and betrayed. He opened his mouth but closed it when he felt Don's hand on his shoulder. He looked at his purple-banded brother.

"Leo," Don said, "let's just find Raph. You can yell at Casey later."

With that, Casey took lead, April close behind and three mutants tailing her. They approached a plump figure on stubby legs. The figure let out a strange guffawing laugh as they all came into view. "I can't believe it! There really _are_ more of you!"

"Cool it, man. We're here to ask ya 'bout my green friend. The one you said ya saw," Casey explained.

The large man nodded. "Only seen him a couple times. Green- darker than you three," he said, vaguely gesturing to the other turtles. "Bulky but not fat."

Michelangelo opened his mouth to make a joke, but both Leo and Don shot him a warning look.

The stout man continued, his cheeks blubbering and bouncing over his constantly morphing chin(s): "Got quite a potty mouth, and he's got a comeback for just about anything. But underneath the sarcasm and the glaring, I think he's just lonely."

 _That_ got April's attention. "Lonely? Poor Raphael."

Don's compassionate side won over his other emotions and he offered the human female a small smile. "He probably misses us, April. It's been a long time."

The stout construction worker gave a shrug. "He's very... guarded, from what I can tell, like he's got this big secret to hide. And he seems to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. He told me about a time he saved a woman from a mugger, but when he returned the purse to her, she took off her shoe and started beating him with it... He didn't say anything after that. He got real quiet. Drank the rest of my booze. Then left." He took on a mournful look. "It was good booze too."

For a long moment, no one knew how to respond.

Then, Leo's words... "Raph. Alone, and drinking." He sighed heavily, placing a hand over his eyes as if it could stop the swarm of thoughts within his head.

Casey's words and pouting expression. "I promised Raph I'd sneak him his first beer. Now it's all ruined." He kicked a pebble with his foot and watched it skitter away.

Don simply looked thoughtful, processing the new information and filing it away.

Mikey bounced on the balls of his feet before saying: "Y'know what this means, right? Our fat friend here might see Raph again! Which means, we might be able to-"

"Mikey!" Leo scolded. "We do not insult people who are being helpful."

April's voice came next, her tone curious. "Ummm, guys? The museum closed around five today, right? Then, why is the back door opened?"

Everyone turned to look and, sure enough, the door had been left slightly ajar. As leader, Leonardo moved in to investigate, signalling his brothers and human friends to hold their positions. Once close enough, he noticed a nearby camera with its wires severed. His expression hardening, he signaled his team to fall in.

The stout construction worker clumsily bounded after, but Michelangelo stopped him. "Sorry, dude. Official ninja business. You can't come. If you fall over, you'll roll away or something. Come to think of it, do you bounce?" The mischievous gleam in his eye spoke volumes of wanting to find out on a personal level, but hearing his genius brother hiss his name was enough incentive for him to refocus and join the others.

The two humans and three turtles lined up outside the darkened doorway, all waiting for... _something_. What that something was, no one could be sure. But as they waited, the air seemed to thicken.

Anticipation rose.

Whatever this was, it was going to be big.

Everyone braced themselves, preparing for the worst.

They drew their weapons, feeling a stir of energy in the air that boasted of a pending fight.

Just then, from the darkness of the museum, a familiar figure stepped out, strange headset secured in place with a cycloptic-lens covering his eyes and a shiny metal brief case clutched in his three-fingered hand.

"Ya gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me!" Raphael practically shouted. _'So much fer stealth!_ '


	19. Ch 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH 18**

* * *

It'd be a lie to say that Raphael was unfazed, but he took a moment to blank his face into something unreadable. Almost subconsciously, he raised a hand to the Foot bandana tied around his arm; he adjusted it, rolling the material so that the Foot insignia rested directly against his leathery skin; it seemed important, though he refused to dwell on this action. That shred of evidence out of sight for the time being, he regarded his five visitors; his team of Foot were still concealed, even to his own enhanced eyes.

"Long time no see?" He tried with a shrug, but there was nothing in his tone that suggested any kind of friendly demeanor.

The group looked the rogue turtle over, each trying to work their minds to understand the turn of events.

Mikey was the first to find his voice. "Raphie! You're totally _naked_!"

Raphael narrowed his eyes in response, his voice low and grungy. "Michelangelo... we're mutants. We're usually naked."

"Not _that_ naked, bro! Where's your gear?! What about your sais? And... whoa, you look wicked weird, like mondo-bizarro without your mask. And what's the doohickey on your face? You look like some crazy comic book character! Can I wear it?"

Don stepped closer to examine the headset, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Hn... Fascinating. If I may...-" he reached a hand out to grab the headset.

Raphael promptly shrank back so that he was less visible, now standing partly in the darkened entrance of the museum he'd inhabited a moment ago. Releasing a growl, he grumbled "This ain't one of yer toys, Donatello. Don't touch."

Leo was the next to speak. "Raph... where have you been? What were you doing in the museum? What's the-" Lowering his set of katana, he gave a nod towards the briefcase.

Raph blinked for a moment. He hated feeling caught or trapped. He regarded the item in question and an idea suddenly came to mind. First and foremost, that idea was ' _escape_ ,' but his mind went into overdrive and he acted on the first actual plan that came to mind in his current situation. He casually stepped forward, closer to his brothers and human companions. He held out the metal case towards the blue-banded turtle. "I ain't never stole nothin', if that's what yer thinkin', Leonardo," he said honestly. "Here, take a look." He offered the case.

Surprised and a little relieved, Leo sheathed his weapons and took the case into his hands- rather, he _tried_ to.

In the nick of time, Raphael stepped to the side and yelled "Michelangelo, play _Keep-Away_ from Leonardo!" And with that me moved to toss the case.

Leo's mind quickly registered the change in tact; he took a step towards Mikey in favor of intercepting the item.

But... the move was a juke, a fake, and it was executed perfectly. When Raphael saw Leo move accordingly, he registered just how _open_ his eldest brother had left himself. _'Yer gettin' sloppy, Leonardo,'_ he thought, adjusting his hold on the briefcase and taking it into both hands. Then, pulling the case back, he swung it at Leo -not hard, just enough to jar him. Then, he followed it up with another blow, a backlash of sorts; this hit the leaf-green turtle much harder than the first as it clipped his chin.

In response, Leo's face whipped to the side and he drew back, unsteady. A sudden burst of natural adrenaline coursed through him, allowing him to ignore he pain, even if his gums and jaw throbbed from the intensity of the blow. If he had allowed himself time to focus, he might wonder if his jaw had been either dislocated or broken. Finding his center and regaining balance with the ease that came from years of practice and perfection, he spoke through tightly clenched teeth. "Be careful, everyone. Safety is our number one priority!" His katana brandished once more in anticipation, their shine sent an echo of light that moved across the pavement; his mind began to work. One thought that came to mind was to distract Raphael, possibly by coaxing the gleaming light into his eyes- but the thought died the moment he regarded the headset.

Don's mouth was drawn tight, but his eyes held little more than confusion. He twirled his bo, hoping for all he was worth that his own kind nature and the defensive purpose of his weapon would aid the situation.

Mikey's face was a mask over a mask over a mask over several other masks- how he really felt, it was hard to say, but horror and worry were in there somewhere, twisting his features as fast as the roll of a slot machine. _'Round and round it goes, where it stops, nobody knows!'_ His nunchaku were poised in each hand and partly tucked back under his arms, tattling his own reluctance to fight... but a sudden hardening in his eyes betrayed the thought: _'I'll do what I have to. This isn't right, but something's gotta be done! One month without Raph nearly tore us apart...'_

Casey held a hockey stick idle in one hand; with his other, he pulled his own mask up to rest atop his head. "Raph-" he began, but stopped before completing the thought because another one replaced it. He jerked his head to look at Leo, then Don, then back to Raph. "Guys, ya think that goofy thing on his head is controllin' his mind?"

"Stranger things have happened," Mikey piped up hopefully.

April gave a hesitant nod. "Whatever's going on, it's bad, guys. Real bad. He really wants whatever is in that case!" She pointed unnecessarily towards the object in question.

Raphael narrowed his eyes and gnashed his teeth together. A sudden tremor violently racked itself through his body and he could feel the rush of blood. His temple throbbed. Shit was about to go from bad to worse... He moved the case in his grip, adjusting his hold so that he held it by the handle with only one hand; his other hand pulled into a tight fist and his arms shook in effort to hold himself back.

Just looking at everyone, knowing their accusations and seeing the way they held their guard in preparation to intervene and jeopardize the success of his mission, his breathing picked up. His infrared display went wild, seemingly on its own, quickly adjusting focus and zooming and panning in an auto-piloted attempt to locate the main source of stress for potential eradication. The display honed in on Leo... and stayed.

Raphael grunted, his mind fighting a losing battle and his heart trying to stab its way out of him.

"Something's wrong," Don said suddenly, worried for the way his rogue brother's physical form seemed to seize.

Everyone was torn between closing in and giving Raphael more room to breathe.

"What do we do, Leo?!" Mikey whined. "You're the leader! Tell us what to do!" There was no mistaking the panic in his voice as he blubbered with emotion. He then turned his attention to Don. "Donnie! You're the Fix-It guy, so fix it! Find out what's wrong!"

Both Leo and Don's expressions mimicked one another, expressing a mix of helplessness and apprehension and questionable determination; their confidence was waning, but they held strong.

Before anyone could do anything, Raphael's fierce trembling quelled itself. He stood there, unmoving for a long moment as his breath evened out. Then, with a dark chuckle and a cynical tone, he spoke... "You all think that stupid shit about me. You're scared... that I'm gonna attack ya."

Leo could taste blood in his mouth from the prior assault, but he said nothing, allowing Raph to continue.

"You think I'm this repulsive _thing_... that does nothin' good... and _always_ fucks up. Ya think- Fuck, ya think I ain't ever in _control_." He paused, unfurling a fist and bringing said hand to rest alongside his headset, fingers curling around the metal device as he felt for a small lever he knew to be there. Still reigning his thoughts, he allowed himself to further his speech. "Ya even _considered_ that I'm under some kinda _spell_... but... tonight, I'll prove ya wrong." With that, his thumb depressed a small clutch on the headset and it split open, similar to how a set of faux handcuffs do; he lowered the device and it almost magnetically snapped back together so that it rested around his neck like a collar, the headset switching modes and reading his pulse. This nuance caught him off guard, but he recovered with a particularly vile sneer.

Everyone exchanged worried glances.

Mikey fixed his hold on his 'chucks and gave them a spin. "I won't quit on you, bro," he promised, but his eyes betrayed his own terror.

Raphael only chuckled. "Look at me, Michelangelo," he instructed. "I'm gonna tell you somethin', and yer gonna listen _fer once_..." He trailed off, waiting until he was certain he had everyone's undivided attention. "You... are a repulsive reptile." He huffed. " _You_ give mutants a bad name. And _you_ , unlike everyone says, are not the _heart_ of the damn _Hamato clan_! You're the fuckin' _comic relief_. And the moment everyone stops laughin', ya become useless."

Mike's hands stilled, the motion of his weapons coming to a clumsy stop and lightly battering his own knuckles in the process.

"Take it back, Raph," Leo growled - _ordered!_ , shoulders raised and head low to make himself appear more menacing.

But again, Raphael laughed, harder this time. "Y'know how I _know_ we ain't family anymore?" he asked suddenly, his tone wistful.

The other three turtles all drew in hitched breaths.

"Because... fer one, yer assumin' shit, and yer wrong. Fer two, yer holdin' weapons against me, and I ain't even properly armed- how's that fer honor? And C-"

" _Three_ ," Don corrected quietly, wincing when the word left his mouth.

" _C,_ " Raph continued anyways. "Yer doin' exactly what we always did with the bad guys..." His voice softened as that sentence slipped away. His own eyes took on a strange look of understanding that hadn't quite been present before. For a fraction of a second, he felt as if he'd learned -and truly accepted- some awful truth... like a child who learns about the impossibility of Santa. But, just as quick as that expression came to light, it vanished.

April seemed to catch on though; having known Raphael on a level not quite as blunt as Casey but somehow more personal than the other turtles, she understood, and she looked horrified. "You mean-"

"Yeah," Raph said, waving his hand in a dismissive manner; he scuffed his foot and immediately stopped himself from continuing the action. Willing himself to voice his thoughts, he spoke, his tone dry with cosmic revelation. "Ya cornered me, made an assumption, and then ya let me talk... thinkin' that I'd reveal some kind of _master plan_ ta ya, but... I ain't got one. I'm not the bad guy here. -In fact, _you_... are the _freaks_ who lack fuckin' _honor_!" With a scream, his blood pressure escalated in scale and pushed him overboard; he felt the sudden need to _flee_. He took advantage of their shock and hurt as he sought an opening and bolted.

Casey was the first to compose himself, having been the least affected. "Oh, no ya don't, buddy! Ya ain't gettin' away so easily!" With that, he gave chase.

One by one, the turtles and April followed his lead.

As Raphael ran ahead, his mind divided, focusing on getting away while hoping his four Foot ninja would head back to Central as he'd previously ordered. After all, he wasn't the fastest, the smartest, or the most tactical among the _foes_ he would be going up against.

But his mind reeled in retaliation, his thoughts pulling him further into a state of assurance, if not over-confidence. _'But they ain't as bull-headed as I am. I got dis. Just gotta keep going.'_

He ran til his lungs hurt from exertion, his heart seemed to pump battery acid. His body burned with effort.

He ran until his mind blanked out and he nearly forgot why he was running in the first place, but the feel of the briefcase in his grasp was a good reminder.

He ran until his legs grew tired despite his stamina, and he was more stumbling than running, clumsy with his effort to push his body beyond its limits.

Finally stopping, panting, nearly out of breath, he took in his surroundings and couldn't help the grin that formed. He'd run on instinct to the familiar construction site.

Even though the others were undoubtedly behind him - _'Too little, too late'_ \- he knew he had the upper-hand in this environment. The other turtles had only been through in passing, but Raphael had made it somewhat of a safe place where he could go to be alone or meet up with Hobo-Joe.

His eyes quickly found a large unfinished scaffold. "Only one way to go," he said, a bitter smile pulling at his face. "Let's see how high you can go, Leonardo," he added, closing the distance between himself and the structure. With affinity, he began to climb.

 _'Hand- hand with briefcase! Foot, foot. Repeat.'_ He pulled himself up.

He was two and a half stories up by the time his pursuers - unwittingly minus one human- poured onto the scene.

Upon arrival, Leo surveyed the situation and adopted a strange expression that no one bothered to read, too focused on the emerald-skinned turtle that ascended. Taking a deep breath, the blue-banded ninja said: "He's going up. There's only one way down..."


	20. Ch 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

The irony was sharp, bladed and serrated, searing into him like venomous jaws. But it had been his own weapon; his own personal bout of mutilation. In the absence of his sais, he wielded words. In the rejection of the fight, he fled. He'd been desperate for control, and he'd denied his desire to throw a punch. _'Because I'm better than that,'_ he thought, but even the voice in his head had a far-away ring to it, as if it was leaving. But it was just as well, because Raphael deserved it, after all the leaving he'd already done.

He wanted control. Of himself, his life... of everything. Perhaps it was his possessive, selfish, hotheaded nature, but somehow, despite his attempts, he'd lost control in an entirely different way, though it was just as destructive.

Beneath an array of stars -they looked so clear, he found himself at the peak of the large scaffold, balanced precariously on single thin beam that stretched between two rises. His feet were firmly planted; his balance was secure. Looking down, his view only slightly distorted by distance, elevation, he watched everyone fan out wide to encircle the base of the platform, to box him in.

His three brothers- _'Can I still call them that?'-_ were the easiest to spot from his vantage point, but a glance over his shoulder, and he spotted a very miffed Casey Jones, his face easily displaying every thought and feeling as it came to be.

Taking a quick count, Raphael's eyes widened with paranoia. Because... April... the human female, wasn't in his line of sight. Which meant, she could be anywhere. Dropping to his knees, he peered over the edge and began to visually trace the rungs and rises of the structure... in case she'd gotten the bright idea to come after him.

 _'No,'_ he thought to himself. _'They wouldn't come up and risk me jumpin'... right?'_ Looking down and seeing just how high he was, he wouldn't make it without pulling some clever acrobatic bullshit, and that just wasn't his domain. Then again, he'd proven his wits; he'd played both _Leader_ and _Engineer_... Who's to say he couldn't go the extra mile to be a little more reflexive and agile?

His insides twisted in disgust at the idea of filling slots that the other turtles usually occupied, but it was necessary. He wasn't part of their team anymore. And, after his one-sided chat with Michelangelo back at the museum, he supposed he'd technically renounced his spot in the Hamato clan.

 _'Heh, membership expired. So, where does that leave me? Am I just another Foot? Shredda's pet? That ain't right... Can't be. I know I started dis shit with good intentions. Just gotta remember 'em.'_ He dug deep into his memory vault as his eyes continued to scan his surroundings.

It appeared that everyone was just standing around, doing nothing.

 _'Typical,'_ he thought with a sudden sneer. _'I was always the one ta rush into things, and now ya guys ain't doin' nothin'. Ya want me to hold yer fuckin' hand? I ain't one of ya no more. Can't be. With me gone, ya ain't gotta... be afraid that I'm gonna hurt Michelangelo. Ya ain't gotta worry 'bout the Foot causin' trouble. You have a lot less of a chance at spillin' blood. It's gotta be dis way. I-I'm sorry.'_

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he'd made his bed and all he could do, was lie in it.

He moved to sit more comfortably on the beam, legs dangling over the edge and the briefcase in his lap. He considered opening it, to see what was so damn important, but he refrained. For all he knew, it could be a bomb that would detonate upon opening. The thought was silly, yes, but anything was possible. That damn briefcase was every bit like Schrodinger's fuckin' Cat: an idea that Raph himself had thought of many times before. Because, unlike what people expected of him, he could use his head, and he _did_ have the ability to retain knowledge... _'Poor cat, maybe. Maybe not. Same thing fer the case. Maybe bomb; maybe some kind of Little Debbie snack cake.'_

Not that it mattered now that he was pitted against the very beings he grew up with, swearing to protect.

On the ground, no one seemed to do much of anything; they were waiting him out, thinking he'd get restless and do something stupid. But he'd show them. He might not have had an infinite well of patience, but he could out-stubborn them if he tried. He wouldn't be baited. He wouldn't fall into the mould of predictability they still fought to put him in.

Raphael was his own person- er- mutant turtle, and he refused to let them define him as nothing more than the muscle, the hothead, the rebel. He was in full control, and he wouldn't stoop so low as to play into their hands.

For a moment, his resolve was firm, unshakable. His expression carefully blank. If Raphael so much as allowed a growl or snarl, he might just give in and get angry, but he couldn't afford that. Not in this situation.

For a moment, he felt incredibly stupid for allowing himself to get virtually trapped. Up so high with nowhere to go. Then again, this had seemed like a better idea before. In his mind, he reasoned that if the others wanted to get to him so badly, they'd just climb up after him and he could avoid them on the way down; he could even take time to taunt Leonardo's insecurities in the process. But of course, the plan was half-baked and came back to bite him on the ass.

At this rate, if no one made any moves, he just might get too restless and give in. Something he didn't want to do because they expected it. But really, what _could_ he do? Unarmed, alone, against a group of skilled fighters whose strengths he was very well aware of.

He sighed inaudibly, his attention back on the metal case and his thoughts gradually falling away. He pulled the emptiness from some cosmic source and drew it in, willing himself to become numb and hollow. In most cases, he hated that feeling, but for now, it was better than the agonizing alternative. Especially when he thought about his pending fight with his brothers.

Because, as far as he could tell, there would be no more escaping.

_'No more denial.'_

For a moment, he almost wanted that damn case to contain a bomb, to blow his shell up, and take his heart with it. Then again, he supposed it wouldn't solve anything. He'd be just a statistic- less than a statistic because almost no one knew of his existence. There would be no proper funeral. He vaguely wondered if his makeshift ceremony would be arranged by the other turtles or his Foot brethren. His mind concocted a strange image of the two setting aside their differences to mourn his passing- but of course, it was a ridiculous thought. They'd sooner tear into each other than try for anything civil...

_'Civil...'_

For a moment, Raphael almost missed the warm five-fingered hand of 'Soupy' touching his shoulder, offering praise or reassurance, speaking in low tones to quell his doubt or rampant emotion. But Soupy wasn't there, and Raph didn't need any 'feel-goods' in this situation. He needed his wits.

_'No more running. But I won't be spillin' blood. That's a promise.'_

The thought was finite and all-consuming, reaffirming with everything in him that he'd come out of this without causing harm.

From then, it seemed as if the passing time was only truly measurable by the position of the stars and the slight alterations in the sky in terms of cloud coverage and color.

In time, it was Leo who would be the first to speak, loud so his voice would be clearly heard, his tone an articulate blend of caution and stern. "Don't do this, Raph. Come home. We'll fix everything. That's what family does." If Leo's words were meant to be placating, they weren't.

That voice, those words, Raphael could only register it all as bait: something to push him over the edge. And despite his resolve, he worried it just might succeed. He could no longer contain the deep growl that vibrated against his vocal cords before he shouted, loudly: "Say all the nice shit ya want, but there ain't no fixin'. Not from you. Ya wanna be a leader? Then lead everyone away. I ain't got no business with you."

"We won't turn our backs on you," Leo said firmly, stubbornly, his gaze trained skyward against his brother's elevated form. "Be reasonable, Raph. Come down. Don't make me send Mikey after you." The words were, he realized, intentionally antagonizing. In saying this, his rogue brother's attention was quickly averted and refocused onto the orange-banded turtle. Leo, taking advantage of the slight distraction, gave a quick and subtle hand gesture in Casey's direction, punctuating it with a upward jerk of his head.

Quickly catching on, the human placed careful hands on a protruding ledge of the scaffold and began to climb as quietly as possible, taking his time.

Meanwhile, Raph was nearly seething, his glare wholly on his youngest sibling. "Michelangelo is fast and athletic, but if I get one good punch in, I won't hesitate ta take him down!" Raph shouted bitterly, suddenly recalling that last sparring match from just over a month ago... ' _I could take him, and I could do it without takin' things too far,'_ he told himself, but even in his thoughts... there was a notable pang of doubt. Seeing the orange-clad ninja still in place on the ground, unmoving as a forgotten chess piece, Raphael redirected his frustration at Leo. "Ya guys really don't wanna piss me off right now. I'm in a bad way, and yer makin' it worse." He warned them.

Raising his hands in a gesture of collective calm, Leo spoke again. "We don't want to p-... upset you, Raph." Leo glanced over to check on Casey's progressive climbing, but from his position, he could only guess; the vigilante was currently out of his sight and somewhere on the other side of the structure. With little thought, Leo realized he had to keep Raphael busy, distracted; had to keep him talking. Had to reduce the hostility at least a little. He chose his next words carefully with the intent of changing the subject and diverting his rogue brother's apparently dismal train of thought. "Raph, what happened to your mask?" There were a million other questions in his head, but none he could fathom that would cause anything less than anger and distress from his flighty sibling.

"I lost it. Big fuckin' deal," Raph spat. "What business is it of yours anyways? I killed a kid, y'know. Isn't that a bigger deal? I did it, but I got over it." And there it was, spoken aloud. A confession. He'd already accepted the murder, but after such a short time, he'd found himself thinking of the late teen less and less, only reminded by that bandana tacked to the wall and Shredder's words of encouragement: _'For late Pennington's honor.'_ In truth, without those, Raphael supposed he'd exhausted the grief of the actual killing. And, to an extent, that fact worried him.

True remorse was lost on him.

It had only been a month. He should be a mess, seeking forgiveness and working to right his wrongs, but... nothing could give back the life he stole. He knew this, and yet... _'How long should I fuckin' pay fer one accident?'_ the thought caught him off guard, but it was acknowledged. - He was conflicted. Confused. And, being confused, he was no more in control of himself now than he was a month ago. Despite the solitary bouts of writing, the swallows of vodka, and the excess training alongside the Foot.

 _'I-I still have no control. Where's that strength I prided myself on? Where's my innate desire ta fight?'_ He groaned in frustration before reaffirming his grip on the metal briefcase and bringing it upward, slamming it into his forehead with a near-dizzying force. The instant headache was enough to jar his thoughts, and he blinked away the blurry aftermath.

From the ground, Leo watched carefully, keeping track of every twitch and sigh from his rogue brother. Because, clearly, something wasn't right, and at this moment, he wouldn't put it passed his younger brother to just jump and leave them all to clean up. The thought was sickening.

Leo's mental mantra was along the lines of: _'I need to keep him talking. Casey needs more time.'_ "Raph, the mask was cut cleanly by something sharp. The last time we saw you, you appeared to have minimal injury, but I can't imagine a blade getting that close to your face without-" Leo trailed off, catching a flicker of motion against the grating of dark sky above.

Casey was less than fifteen yards away from Raphael, his balance careful, knees bent and arms spread wide as he began to close in.

Mikey and Don were still grounded on opposite sides of the scaffold, Don paying close attention to everything going on and everyone's current position. By Don's calculations something was definitely off -not just about Raphael either. After a moment's thought, he realized what that _something_ was. "Leo," he said immediately, voice tinged with a bit of urgency. "Where's April?"

That caught the leader's attention and he moved to point on instinct where he figured the redheaded female would be, but... he stopped mid-raise of the hand, a crease forming between his eye ridges to articulate uncertainty. "Don... find April; she could have twisted an ankle or something on the way here. Or worse."

Don gave a nod but was hesitant to leave. He caught sight of Casey's current location and Mikey's jittery tip-toeing. He considered Raphael's position and his faith in Leonardo as the leader. With a deep breath, he decided that everything would be fine. No one appeared to be in danger -aside from the sheer height of the scaffold. And so, he ignored his other worries and turned his shell to everyone, intent on following his leader's order and making sure their other human friend was alright.

Meanwhile, Mikey's attention had been wholly on Raphael. His brother had said hurtful things, but he had to imagine that Raphael was hurting so much more, if it had come to that. The fact that he didn't jump straight into a physical fight had to mean _something_ , and Michelangelo suddenly missed the aggressive side of his brother. Something was missing. Or maybe _he_ was missing something. They were all so close to Raphael, but still so far away. He had to wonder, even if they managed to bring the turtle back to the lair, would it be enough? Would they even be bringing home Raphael? Or had too much damage been done in the short amount of time they'd been apart?

He shook his head hard, trying to force the thought away. He refused to quit on his family.

His blue eyes roving just a bit, Mikey caught sight of Casey's perch, and an idea struck the youngest. In his mind, he recalled his own speed and agility, and with the desire to assist in any way possible, he jumped onto a section of the structure and scaled with ease, silent with his every move. In a fraction of the time it had taken either Raph or Casey to get to the top, Michelangelo had made it to the other side of the beam at the peak of the scaffold.

Raph sat in the middle, his gaze trained downwards; he'd just watch Donatello run off.

On Raphael's left, Casey; on his right, Mikey.

The unmasked turtle was thoroughly trapped. He could do many things, but he couldn't take on both the agile reptile and his former best friend in such an environment, weaponless no less. He had to think quick. Unfortunately, while he was quite capable, this wasn't his strong suit; he wasn't really a leader; he wasn't the play-maker; he wasn't the big brain behind the more complicated operations. He'd proven that he could operate as both leader and engineer, yes, but he'd had help; and now, he was alone.

No one was on his side. No backup. No one to have his shell when things got bad.

He was on his own. His enemy more than just the other turtles and Casey -his enemy was also the world.

For not being able to accept him. For branding him a freak and an outcast. For forcing him into the shadows...

_'Fuckin' shadows. Always stuck in the dark... Even now, as close ta bein' free as I can be, and I've gotta practically fight fer my life, and it's still fuckin' dark out.'_

And so embittered, practical tactics be damned, he reassured himself that the briefcase was still in his possession -an act that both of his would-be captors took notice of, before he inched his way along the beam in Casey's direction.

Rash decisions were more his style, always had been, and he finally allowed himself to fall back on them. It felt natural, easy. Just act and think later.

He shut his mind down.

Actions... always better than words. Words got in the way. Words fucked things over.

Raph was done talking. His jaw tight and teeth bared, he approached the human male.

"Raph?" Casey asked, his gaze suddenly on the briefcase as he realized the turtle was getting closer. For a moment, he wondered if Raphael might hit him with it and knock him into gravity's unforgiving hands. "C'mon, Raph. Buddy. Pal, talk ta me..."

Raphael said nothing; his expression caught between grim and menacing. Closing in, he fisted the fabric of Casey's shirt. He utilized the strength he'd worked so hard for, and promptly lifted Casey and hurled him in Michelangelo's direction. An apology burned on his tongue, but he held it back.

Because words were useless.

Surprised, Casey cried out as he crashed into the orange-clad ninja and both fell from the lengthy structure. Quick and true to the nature of his own abilities, Michelangelo grasped onto a sturdy metal rung and caught himself halfway down; he dangled, Casey falling below him and snatching hold of the turtle's ankle.

Decidedly safe, Casey waited for his breathing to even out before he said "Well, that could've gone better." He offered a sheepish grin.

Mikey nodded. "Yeah. Raph sure is shell-bent on not going home, huh? But, at least he's alive." He paused, then forced a smile. When he spoke again, his voice was loud, delightful, and terribly too chipper. "So, after this, do you think I have a shot at being a stunt-double?"

Casey offered a pity chuckle at the lame attempt to lighten the mood. "A little on the green-side, aren't ya, bonehead? Now, let's get our feet on somethin' solid."

Once assured that his brother and human friend had made it to safety, Leo trained his focus on Raphael, who had managed to make it to the ground in a few rough leaps, swings, and bounds, landing harshly enough to stun his legs momentarily. Seeing this, Leo opened his mouth to direct a command at Don, but... the purple-clad ninja was long gone. With a huff, Leo instead raced after his unmasked brother. He didn't know if it was determination or some form of grudge, but he had to get Raphael. His team- his family- depended on it. He refused to fail.

Leo began to close in on Raph, and hope started to settle comfortably in his chest. He was so close; his legs carried him fast and his stamina was still going strong. He pushed off from the ground, preparing to tackle his younger brother. Just before he could make contact, something happened. He didn't quite catch it until it was too late, though the slight motion in his peripherals should have alerted him; should have clued him in a solid second sooner as countless smoke pellets rained down into the area around the turtles and erupted in a fierce screen of white.

Leo somehow missed Raphael completely, hitting the ground and skidding on his plastron, gaining dirt, pebbles, and various debris in his forearms and knees. He inhaled the smoke, coughed, and waved his hands, trying to clear the sudden burst of chemical that seized his throat and burned his eyes. One thing he noted was that it _tasted_ wrong; not like the usual smokescreens that were so often used. He coughed a couple more times; inhaling it left his brain fuzzy, dizzy, and slightly disoriented. When he was finally able to get his bearings... Raphael was _gone_.

Again.

_'Sensei, forgive me. I have failed.'_

...

* * *

Donatello found April less than a block away from the museum. Duct tape nearly mummifying her. He winced at the sight and tried to decide the best way to remove it with the least amount of strain. His first thought was to utilize the aid of a solvent to ease the adhesion before removal, but he didn't have any on him, and he was certain April didn't want to wait. So, he started at her head, gripping a piece of protruding tape and working to unravel it.

It was fine- minimal hair pulling- until he got to April's eyes and saw how worried she looked, how wet her cheeks were from crying. But even that was better than the wail that came when her mouth was free of tape.

"April! I came as soon as I could. What happened?" He bit his lip as he continued to work the tape away from her, hoping a conversation might distract her from the ripping/pulling sensation.

Gasping, April turned her frantic gaze downward, appearing in deep thought before looking Don in the eyes. "You won't believe this, Donnie, but it was the _Foot_!"

"The Foot?" Don echoed with a hint of surprise. "Strange, they've been virtually inactive since...-"

"I know, I know," she cut him off, in a hurry to be heard. "But you'll never guess what they did!"

"Did they... hurt you?" Don asked, shoulders suddenly tense.

April blinked for a long hard minute before shaking her head. "Nothing like that."

Don's shoulders sagged with relief.

"But... _someone_ did get hurt, and this was the baffling part. They turned on one of their own. There were four, but three of them beat up on one!"

...

* * *

_[Later, Foot Central]_

Raphael collapsed in a heap, almost literally dropped before the Shredder. Stress and guilt were eating away at him, sapping him of any fight. It was degrading, that after the night he had, he'd be once again kneeling before Shredder, staring absently into the metal shin guards of his armor.

Because he _was_ armored.

Normally, Raphael would take the time to throw a barb his way, but now, he just couldn't muster up the energy. He didn't know if he'd succeeded or failed his mission at this point, but he knew for sure that he'd failed at everything else.

"Rise, Raphael," the Shredder said, his tone betraying nothing.

Almost on auto-pilot, Raphael rose to his feet, albeit lethargically. He kept his eyes trained downwards. "Shredda, I got the case-thing from the museum," he said.

Shredder gave a curt nod and drew the case into his own hand. "Anything else you wish to tell me about your outing?"

Raphael inhaled shakily; his body convulsed with pent-up emotions but he worked to force them down; those emotions would do him no good here. "The... initial mission went flawless. Stealth and all. We got in, got the case, and came out. But..."

" _But_?" Shredded coaxed when Raphael's tongue seemed to quit working.

"But, on the way out, we ran... uh... inta some complications. Y'see, my brothers-"

"The repulsive reptiles!" Shredder snapped, voice rough.

Raph, if possible, paled. He curled his toes almost reflexively. "Yeah, the reptiles... they showed up with-" he continued his explanation but stopped for a moment. His mind worked with surprising clarity as he decided to stretch the truth... just a little. After all, what harm could come from leaving April and Casey out of the equation? -"Shredda, they showed up with the intent ta stop me. Thought I was robbin' the museum or somethin'. Things got a little outta hand."

Shredder took a moment to consider the words, the tone, and the hesitation. "Did you engage in battle?"

"No," Raphael said quickly, easily, truthfully. "I-I hit Leo with the-"

"Leonardo," Shredder corrected.

Raphael winced at his mistake. The more he verbally messed up, the greater his punishment would be in the end. But he had to get his words out. "I hit Leonardo with the metal case-thingy. Hope nothin' in there was breakable."

Again, Shredder appeared thoughtful. Then, at long last, he raised a hand and planted it on Raphael's shoulder.

Almost instantly, the turtle's tension began to fade. Despite how little, he craved the gesture, the feeling of someone offering praise, comfort, or guidance without getting too close- hugs were suffocating, but _this_... Raphael could appreciate this.

Suddenly, the grip of that hand on his shoulder tightened, fingers digging in _hard_ , hard enough to make Raphael wonder if it would leave any visible mark on his dark leathery skin. Regardless, he refused to portray signs of discomfort.

Shredder's next words were more than enough to jar Raphael as he spoke: "Tell me, Raphael, at what point in your little story does Ms O'Neil and Mr Jones come into the picture?"

Raphael's eyes widened without his consent. "How did you-" _'How could he possibly know?!'_

"You tried your hand at leader, Raphael, and you failed."

"But, Shredda, I-" He was almost pleading, his heart pounding. He was suddenly reminded of the last time he'd tried and failed to talk to the _rat_... He felt like a distraught child trying to get help, but no one would listen... No one would understand. No one even tried. But, at least in this case, the lack of faith was warranted.

"Your Foot have all come back, dragging you from the battlefield. I am pleased that you have put your trust in them, but still... as leader, you have failed. One of your men did not come out unscathed. He's in the infirmary, and his life hangs in the balance at the hands of Ms O'Neil; he was bludgeoned with a brick, if I am to understand correctly. Should he pass, let it be on your conscience."

_'But... April would never...- She wasn't there at the construction site. But-!'_

Raphael suddenly felt worse than empty. His thoughts raced, trying to pull up a memory of what might have happened to any of his ninja. He'd left them at the museum, and he didn't see them again until after the scaffold fiasco- and even then, he was dizzy and sick from whatever new chemical was being packed into their fancy pellets.

He could recall nothing of significance on the trip back to Central.

 _'April didn't follow. She wasn't anywhere near the scaffold. Then Donatello left... What if the two of 'em decided ta-'_ Raphael's thoughts refused to complete themselves, for which he was admittedly grateful. The little faith he had in humanity couldn't take a blow this bad.

Finally drawing his crushing grip away from the turtle, Shredder spoke again, voice filtered. "You have failed, Raphael." His hands found the mutant again, this time going to the strange device that acted as both a headset and a collar. With ease, he removed it and set it aside. "You failed the family that didn't want you-"

"Fer someone who didn't want me," Raphael cut in, voice quiet, drained, distant, "they sure tried pretty hard ta get me back. Maybe... Maybe I could go home? They might take me back, y'know..."

If the Shredder heard, he didn't acknowledge the words. "You failed your wretched family. You went against the teachings of the rat who took you in. You took a life. Then, in coming here to wipe the slate, you potentially endangered your own ninja. You are not fit to be leader. Should you continue to hold any position in this clan, you will learn to appreciate it. Because, apart from being a mutant, Raphael, you are not special. And, despite myself, no one wants you. No one sees any value in you. Raphael, you should not exist."

Anything the armored man said after that fell on deaf ears.


	21. Ch 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: Two words: Astral Plane. Prepare for it.  
> Also, to stave off any pending confusion, this chapter is in three parts and goes full-circle.

**CH 20**

* * *

_[The Lair, Leo and Splinter]_

Despite the late hour, Leo made a beeline for his sensei, to report how their outing had gone; he held a pained expression as he once again spoke to his sensei about failure.

"Worry not, my son. That Raphael is alive is good news enough, though his spirit is weak. That bright and passionate flame that once flickered within him is dying. We will get him back, and he will be made whole. Our family... will be whole again." He gave a firm nod and his whiskers twitched.

Leo smiled and bowed to show his respect and appreciation. "Thank you, sensei. You're right. We'll get Raphael back. I suppose I just needed to hear-"

"Do not mistake my words, my son, for a well of optimism. I say this only to encourage. And because I know we will prevail. In Raphael's absence, I have done much soul-searching. I fear that I have been neither the father nor the sensei that Raphael needed. We are all to blame, but do not allow this burden to be heavy on you. Our shoulders carry enough weight. In the end, we must understand that Raphael has run off on his own. But he will come back."

Leo drew in a breath and held it for a moment before speaking with wounded honesty: "But, sensei, you didn't see him tonight. You didn't hear the way he talked, or see the way he ran. And... my jaw," he placed a hand over his lower mandible. It was unnaturally discolored, sore -but according to Don, it was neither broken nor dislocated. The structure of their jaw was sturdy and the damage was minimal, though the bruising ran deep.

Splinter's mouth quirked into a smile as he considered his spirited son's worry; his furry brows arched. "I know Raphael will return... when he is ready... simply because he ran away."

"Master Splinter, I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Your brother is hurt. His wounds are not of the visible sort; they run much deeper. He could have fought harder, but instead... he fled. As he always has when he wishes to avoid harming his loved ones. And like always, he will come back as long as he knows there is a home to come back to. Until then, we keep faith."

Leonardo thought the words over, rolling them around in his head for a moment before his own expression brightened. "Maybe you're right, sensei. I suppose for now, I should exercise some damage control with the others."

"Correct, Leonardo. As leader, you must pull everyone together and not allow the bond to continue its fray. As a family, we are too vulnerable to risk the added stress, for even the strongest ties can be severed by neglect... But first, we meditate."

"Hai, sensei." And Leo joined his master in the familiar position, closing his eyes and willing away his worries, allowing his mind to find solace while his body relaxed. Once lost in his own trance of meditation, time was something unmanageable. Seconds were just as long as hours, and minutes just the same as days. There was no rooted clock in the expanse where the mind met the astral plane. It was simply a void of existence that even the most spiritual beings rarely found themselves at.

And yet, for perhaps the first time in his life -without the direct aid and guidance of his master, the blue-banded turtle found himself slipping into the cosmic veil of existence where _Exile_ connected with _Eternity_. It was more bright and vivid -lively- than he could have imagined. The planetary alignments in his view, three suns bearing down, the ground composed of some form of sediment he'd never before encountered... The way the sky was crisscrossed with moving colors of purples and blues... it was fantastic. There was a sense of peace and serenity he'd only ever feigned, and for just a moment, it was tangible in its beauty.

That moment of peace, however, didn't last long, as his spirit-self caught sight of something darkening in the sky, as if a storm was closing in. Curious, and a little disheartened that he couldn't continue to appreciate his first solo trip to the astral plane, Leo found himself running towards the storm.

Dark clouds -ranging in colors from a harsh violet to a soulless black- loomed overhead, thunder clapping and lightning striking down at unpredictable intervals.

Even in his spiritual form, everything about the raging storm urged him to turn away and run, but upon closer inspection, he caught a glimpse of a startlingly familiar shade of green...

The moment he registered the color alone, his mind was made up and he drew closer. He opened his mouth in preparation to shout his brother's name, but his voice caught in his throat as he fully took in the appearance of the other spiritual being.

Raphael's spirit- as Leo could only assume this was- appeared young, at least a good few years younger than his actual age. He held no visible scarring as he tightly held a pen in his grasp and proceeded to -almost mindlessly- write his own name over and over again on a single sheet of paper that was already more than filled; at that point, he was just re-tracing the letters, as if he was afraid he'd forget them.

More haunting than the frantic and clumsy writing was the haunted look in those eyes that once put shame to the morning sun.

"Raph," Leo finally managed to call out, nothing but concern in his tone.

Raphael's spirit appeared startled at hearing Leo's voice, and that temporary fear was easily replaced by a blaze of anger as passion was suddenly ignited in those eyes.

The 'storm' above became more fierce, though the thunder and lightning stopped; clouds swirled into a vortex of sorts, and from their infinite depths came a rain of loose sheets of paper, all fluttering and flapping as they spiraled down, almost funneling around Raphael. The papers were fast and numerous, and like paper-mache they began to take form and harden, forming a circular wall around Raphael.

Raphael's spirit made a move to escape the quickly-building wall, but too-soon he was closed in. Imprisoned. Once he was fully encased in a large paper dome, the storm stopped. The clouds began to clear away. And Leo's spiritual-self was left to stand there with a confused and aching heart, but more than that was a sudden sense of understanding as he found himself thrown from the spirit realm to the clutches of reality.

In his true physical form, Leonardo's eyes snapped open and he gasped, loud and startled, taking in heaps of breath that he didn't bother to control.

"Calm yourself, my son," Splinter said to him.

"But, sensei..." Leo paused, thinking carefully before amending. "Father, I think... I... Raphael's in danger."

Splinter's tail lashed out at the very idea. "What did you see, my son?"

Leo frowned, his eye ridges knitting together to show his distress as he worked through what had transpired. "In the spirit-world, he was younger-"

"Ah, a show of innocence," Splinter explained. "Continue."

"But there was a storm. A bad one."

"Raphael's emotions, of course," Splinter said easily.

"And Raphael, he... was writing."

"Your brother always did write when he was upset. I was surprised, truly, the first time he came and asked for a notebook. But I was even more surprised when -less than a week later- he asked for two more. He was always breaking pencils, snapping them with his strength. Until I introduced him to pens..."

Leo shook his head frantically. He had to explain what he saw; there was no time to take a trip down memory lane. "Master Splinter, Raphael was writing his own name over and over, and he looked... lost. His eyes looked all wrong."

The rat took a moment to consider before coming to a conclusion and announcing it. "I suppose this could be a war of identity for Raphael. He appeared innocent because... despite everything... at heart, he very much is still pure. He looked lost because, in many ways, he is. As for him writing his name, I suppose it could be a visual representation of him trying to hold onto who he is, in essence. If he is in danger of losing himself, then...-"

"But that's not all, sensei," the turtle cut in sharply, regretful for interrupting but not sorry enough to stop. "I think I can bring him back."

"How do you mean, my son?"

"Sensei, on the astral plane, when I called Raph's name, his eyes _changed_. I mean, he looked angry, but he also looked _alive_. That has to mean something, sensei. That has to mean that I can bring him back."

Splinter regarded what his eldest son was saying before giving a nod. "That is very possible, Leonardo. We must put faith in this idea, but you must not allow it to burden you so heavily. Raphael is not in his fight alone, and neither are you. Part of being family, is being a crutch to one another. Do not hesitate to lean when you become weary."

Leo nodded, but in truth, he only half-registered what he'd been told. His mind was too busy replaying the trip to the astral plane and focusing on the idea of saving his brother from any sort of misery.

Because they were family.

And that's what family did.

Then, against his better judgment, Leo uttered one last word of importance to his sensei. "Father, there's one more thing..." he hesitated, but pressed on after a moment. "Right before I came back from the spirit-world, one more thing happened."

"What was that, my son?"

"The storm changed. Raphael tried to get away, but he was _trapped_ , sensei."

Hearing this, Splinter's ears flatted against his head and a worried expression took residence on his face. There was reluctance in his demeanor before he found his own tired voice. "For as long as Raphael is alive, there is hope. We must hold onto that."

...

* * *

_[Don and Mikey]_

Mike and Don had both come home to the lair with the intent to take up residence in Raphael's room. Strangely enough, it was almost an unspoken agreement, that they occupy the room one at a time. Otherwise, it seemed crowded, suffocating. And yet, tonight was destined to be an exception.

It was almost a race to get there. Both turtles had started off in that direction and, upon noting that the other was going as well, they picked up speed until both were at an awkwardly brisk walk -not quite running.

As if arriving first assured their right to be there.

It had been neck-and-neck, but Michelangelo was first with Don only two broad steps behind. The orange-banded ninja was hesitant but, instead of claiming his prize as the victor, he pulled the door open and gestured for his older brother to enter.

With a mildly surprised look, Don accepted the invitation and stepped in. Mikey followed and shut the door behind them. Entombing them with the ghost of their brother's memory and essence.

The purple-clad turtle took a breath and looked around. Everything in the room was bittersweet with remembrance of their hotheaded brother. After he'd scanned the room entirely, he shuffled over to the hammock, grabbed the stuffed turtle and got comfortable in its place. Then, resting in the hammock, he lightly traced his fingers over the soft texture of the toy before allowing his gaze to seek and find Michelangelo.

Mikey wasn't at all happy with Don's location, but he supposed it couldn't be helped, given their predicament and current methods of coping. He seated himself on the floor and grabbed a notebook.

"What's that?" Don asked, curiosity winning him over.

Mikey smiled softly, his eyes almost twinkling with sincerity. "Raph had... little diaries."

"You mean _Journals_ , right?" Don asked, propping himself up to get a better look at his youngest sibling.

The orange-clad turtle shrugged. "Same thing. There's stuff in these that you'd never guess."

"Should you be reading them? If it's personal..."

Michelangelo huffed, his mood suddenly fluctuating. "He _wants_ us to read 'em. Here, let me show you..." He paused, digging through the stack of notebooks and pulling out a specific one that had tribal doodles randomly inked over most of the cover. He flipped open the cover and began to read aloud.

_One of them days again. Tired. Didn't sleep. Worn out. Thought about joinin' the family but... Splinta's with Leo doin' the meditatin' thing. Don's in the lab, possibly comin' up with an effective method to kill roaches- probably not, but I can hope. And Mikey, shit- Mikey. Fuckin' Mike. Always with the jokes... He might be an annoying pain in the ass, but I wouldn't trade the twerp fer nothin'. I ain't ever gonna tell 'em dis, but he is funny sometimes. Mostly when I'm not the victim of his pranks._

_Kinda lonely sometimes. Like, I got this family; then there's April and Case, but they all see me as this single... thing. They put clear labels on me. I know I ain't the best of the batch, but it ain't fair ta put labels on me. To add the expectations. To push me into this cookie-cutter life._

_It ain't right._

_I could be more, y'know. I could. Ya think my anger is the problem, but how many times has it saved us in battle? Nah, I think the problem is that I'm just not what you guys want outta me. As a brother or a teammate._

_I could be more. Maybe not the leader, not like Mr Perfect. Not the brain, my genius bro. Not the heart- that's you, knucklehead; we all need ya- But I really could do more than hit and beat on stuff; you just don't give me the chance._

_Sometimes... I wish you guys could read these stupid Journal-thingies. Then, I could tell ya everythin' that I don't get ta say. Because, I can't say 'em. Even if I found the right words, they wouldn't sound right. Ya guys wouldn't hear what I meant. If Leo said 'em, you'd know. If Don or Mike said 'em, you'd understand and believe. But if I said 'em, they'd mean somethin' completely different._

_It's not fair. But hey, who said life was fair? We're stuck..._   
_And I'm chokin' on my selfish pride while you guys get as close to the limelight as ya can._   
_But I ain't gonna blame ya. No matter what I say, don't ever fuckin' accept the blame. Yer better than that._   
_Just wish I could say the same 'bout myself._

Finishing up, Mikey set the Journal aside and looked at Don. He cleared his throat before addressing his older brother. "Some of these are really old, Donnie. From back when we were kids and he couldn't even spell half of what he was writing. Reading through the notebooks, you can see him growing up, y'know?" He offered a strained smile. "His words get better, but his penmanship doesn't improve too much." He paused, expression falling. "His thoughts get darker though... Even around us, he doesn't feel like he fits in. Feels like he has to constantly prove himself. Like he's not good enough. I mean, I knew he had insecurities because he was so bad at hiding them, but... I didn't think he was so..."

"Alienated and sub-virtually adrift? Emotionally impoverished?" Don supplied, surprised by how choked up his voice was with the few words he'd given.

"Yeah," Mikey whispered. After that, silence filled the room. The air grew stale. In time, Mike spoke again. "Hey, Don? Where do you think Raph is? I mean, he has to be staying somewhere, right?"

Don pulled the stuffed turtle closer and shifted to a more comfortable position so that he rested on his carapace; his eyes, half-lidded, were trained upward. He took several breaths to consider the question directed at him, but he hadn't any answer. So, when he next spoke, he voiced his own query instead. "I wonder..." he blinked at the ceiling. "Do you think this is what Raph looked at every night before bed?"

Suddenly curious, Michelangelo looked up. Setting the notebook aside, he moved closer to the hammock, leaned back and allowed his gaze to join his brother's. "I guess..." he said, but he couldn't find any significance.

Don chuckled, but the sound was hollow, devoid of mirth. "I suppose it doesn't seem like much, and maybe Raph thought the same thing. It's hard to say. All I know is, when we get him back -because we will- I don't want him to ever think like that again. I don't want him to sulk in here and think he's an outcast among us. I don't want him to feel stuck, like he's expected to fill a role and unable to be anything else."

Taking in the words, Mikey reclaimed his prior position on the floor. He reached for another notebook. "So, uh, should we read on, bro? I mean, dude, I've gotta say, there's some heavy stuff about you, Donnie, and I'm a little jealous." He cracked a small but unquestionably authentic smile. He flipped the page open and began to read...

_'Sparring today. Kicked Don's shell. Totally dominated the fight. He went down with a wicked kick and a solid jab! I laughed pretty good. Mikey too. Leo- fuckin' Leo- gave a lecture about being conceited. But fuck that. The way I see it, I won fair and deserved somethin' fer it. Credit where credit is due, right? Isn't there somethin' 'bout that?  
Still, I made sure to see Don later about it, to make sure he was alright- not physically. I kinda said somethin' ta him earlier. Somethin' bad. I wasn't thinkin'. Called him useless and-'_

"Wait, when was that written?" Don couldn't help asking.

"Don't know, bro," Mikey responded. "These aren't exactly dated. I kinda guess the order on how well he writes. But if I had to guess, this definitely took place after he almost knocked Leo off a roof and before I bribed him into a Star Wars marathon."

Don gave a slow nod to process what he heard, and his concluding thoughts tugged at his heartstrings. "Then, this is a Journal written about the fight Raphael and I had... when he tried to apologize by making me coffee... and he broke the mug." He couldn't help the smile. Back then, the moment had been tense with Donatello's uncertainty and his red-banded brother's sorrow, but the memory itself was clouded over with the a time-fluxed fog that could only make it precious. The kind that blurred away the bad and left it all with a warm affectionate vibe. "Read on, Mikey, if you would..."

...

* * *

_[Foot Central, Raphael]_

They called it ' _The Barracks,_ ' or so Raphael had been told.

It was fair in size but still too small for the number of occupants. It was all wood and rough-textured brick. Cold and damp, dimly lit. The smell... of musk, sweat and wood-chips, like the part of a pet store where uncleaned hamster cages might be kept from the initial view of inspectors.

Words like _hoarder_ and _cage_ and _unsanitary_ briefly entered Raphael's mind, but he couldn't quite latch onto a single thought for more than a few seconds before it fell away completely. In his mind, he scrabbled for anything concrete. Something stable. Something that would ground him and keep him from slipping away.

In the dank and murky barracks, he took in the sight of -not just misguided teens, but also _children_. Some appearing as young as five or six, wearing ragged old pajamas, their faces tinged with dirt; one child even still sucked his thumb. Not one person, regardless of age or physique appeared to be masked or geared. Instead, they looked at-ease, laid back.

One look at them- the way they lounged or chatted quietly or gave the occasional playful punch- and it was obvious that _this_ was their homestead.

"Welcome to the Barracks. Home sweet home," one young ninja said, smiling too brightly and waving his hand frantically in front of Raphael.

The turtle's only response was a long slow blink of strained recognition.

The too-chipper teen continued. "C'mon, it's not so bad. I mean, for the Foot, it doesn't get any lower than this, but... it's not hard to climb in ranks as long as you're an active participant. And the higher the rank, the better the privileges. Better housing too. Better food..." The teen's stomach growled and he laughed it off.

A few others joined in, as if it had been some sort of inside joke among them.

"Really not that bad."

With effort, Raphael processed the words that had been directed at him and worked himself to articulate a verbal response. "You... got family, right?" His words were slow, quiet, uneasy.

The teen shrugged. "Sure do. Got a mom, dad, a sister, and my cousin comes over a lot. I got good grades, sorta. Except in math. I got a girlfri-"

Raphael cut in then, his voice a little louder, tone more harsh and less weak-sounding. Gruff. "Why don't ya just go home? There ain't nothin' here fer ya."

The teen frowned and sat down, pulling his knees to his chest. He looked thoughtful for a moment before shrugging. "Bad as it is here, it's better than home. No dad to yell at me. No mom to sit around and shoot up all day. No baby sis to act like it's my responsibility to take care of her-"

Raph's breath hitched then, as if the cloak that had settled so thickly over his mind had begun to tear and allow some form of understanding. Yet, what he heard, he couldn't quite fathom. Confusion shown clearly on his face as he interjected "But if she is your sister, you _are_ responsible fer her. As family, that's how it works. Ya don't get ta choose what-"

The teen smiled sadly as he interrupted. "I never said I did the right thing. Some problems are easier to avoid than to face. Besides, I like it here. I'm never bored or lonely. No one ever asks me to do something apart from training or an occasional outing, and I still get to go to school and stuff."

Raph sighed and turned away. Whatever attempt he'd made towards being social had been dropped; there would be no unnecessarily false pretense at work on his part. His head was still spinning a little, caught in some proverbial web weaved out Shredder's most recent words. Between the possibility of a young Foot's death and his own lack of determined value, his internal strife was pitting white-hot coals of dread between his heart and stomach, and an almost physical ache had manifested.

Raphael _hated_ the internal ache, almost as much as he _hated_ feeling useless.

He vaguely registered the discomforting cold temperatures of the Barracks, but the fact seemed trivial at best.

Part of him wanted to go to sleep and wake up to find everything back to normal, with him doing a few morning stretches before joining Soupy to find out his daily agenda, whether he were to run through a few obstacle courses or spar with his brethren, he could be happy if only-

 _'No,'_ he caught himself mid-thought. _'Normal would be the lair. Normal would be Leo with his polished swords, perfect form, and appreciation fer tea. Normal would be Don fawning over coffee and blabberin' about some sciency-thing. Or Mikey with his pranks and jokes and messy kitchen escapades...'_ The corners of his mouth twitched, but no actual smile formed. Thoughts of his family -his real family- seemed to quell the inner ache, if only temporarily.

The fact that he'd turned away from them, regardless of intent, was something he still struggled to fully comprehend. As if at any moment, he might wake up and find himself home; as if everything had all been a bad dream for him to write about in his Journals.

_'If I could wake up and find things different... which reality would I be hoping fer? Home with my brothers, where I can't live up to their expectations and I'm stuck underground? Or among Soupy and the Foot, where I'm still strugglin' to make things work and failing? There ain't no way ta get the best of both worlds. Both got their advantages and disadvantages, but at this point, weighin' pros and cons... I guess I'd just do whatever would most benefit my family. And that lands me here... Fuck. Here, where I'm just as useless... Shouldn't... exist.'_

He knew all too well. Even when he was trying to do something right, he'd managed to fuck it all up.

Perhaps that was his role in life, beyond being the muscle and hothead. Perhaps he was also, in more blunt terms, the fuck-up.

_'Now that's one hell of a label ta give myself... I'd almost prefer just bein' the muscle. At least the muscle could be potentially useful.'_

Raphael sighed and mimicked the young Foot's position with his knees drawn close to his plastron. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sat like that, but he imagined he'd been a kid.

"Ya got a name?" The voice was Raphael's though he honestly didn't recall opening his mouth to voice it.

The teen in question jumped, surprised and delighted. "Yeah! But, uh, there's no point in giving it to anyone yet. Until I move up in rank, I'm expendable," he confessed, giving an awkward chuckle.

"Expendable..." Raphael echoed. _'Demoted... so low. Expendable.'_ Raphael closed his eyes and pressed his face to his knees as he let it sink in. _'What does expendable even mean? I'm sure Donatello could give this long-winded explanation, but... really... doesn't it just mean that it's worthless? That it can be just... thrown away?'_ He drew in a deep breath. _'If I'm down here with them, and they're all expendable, then so I am... but that can't be right... Even if Shredda got all whacked out and said that I shouldn't exist! I mean... by all logic -not that logic is my fuckin' domain- I shouldn't. Mutated turtles aren't natural. But, I mean-'_

Raphael was stolen from his thoughts when the teen spoke again. "Don't worry about it. Being _expendable_ really just means that you haven't shown your true potential! It's not hard to climb the ranks here, but... the Foot have been so inactive lately, there hasn't been any chance to prove ability or loyalty. So, we're all kinda in suspension. The Foot's version of Limbo." He flailed his arms in a wild gesture that had virtually no meaning, as if he simply needed to move but had nothing better to do.

Raphael didn't bother suppressing the groan, but he refused actual words. A large part of him wanted the kid to shut the hell up, but a smaller, less hostile part was glad for the company. _'I'm the reason the Foot has been inactive,'_ he thought sourly. _'Because of me, these kids are stuck in rank. Cold. Probably hungry. And, judgin' from the smell, some are potentially ill. Some kind of infection...'_ He groaned again. As far as he could tell, there was no way to win.

He'd dug himself into a trench and whether he stayed or tried to run, he'd just keep sinking deeper and deeper. The only question was, did he want to sink slower or faster?

"Y'know," the teen said after a while. "A few times, Master Shredder has put his higher-ranking operatives down here as punishment. Never for long, but long enough to motivate them to try harder. Maybe that's where you come in." He reached over to offer an awkward double-pat to the turtle's shoulder, and Raphael immediately recoiled. After that, the teen withdrew. "I tried," he said tiredly, exuberance suddenly gone as he got up and walked over to one of many bunks. It was late, and he was tired of playing the 'welcoming committee' to someone who was less than receptive.

After the teen had left him alone, Raphael allowed his thoughts to stew- well, at least the thoughts that bothered to complete themselves and be processed appropriately. Between said thoughts were an immeasurable number of blanks and empty spaces that he couldn't quite fill.

He knew something was wrong, but he couldn't quite pinpoint what that something was. It was as if some sort of _spark_ was missing.

He really couldn't be sure of how much time had passed as he sat in silence, breathing deeply and focusing on the calm feeling it brought.

In time, his mind drifted away, and for some reason he couldn't fathom, he imagined his name over and over. Like a mantra. A chant. Something repetitive and important. Almost sacred.

He imagined his name on paper, inked in blue. Drawn in hard, crude lines.

Over and over.

_RAPHAEL._

As if writing it would confirm something on a deeper scale. Somehow, there was almost something comforting in the way his name looked, the way the pen felt in his grasp as the tip scratched against that paper...

He'd traced over his name more than a hundred times, and it seemed as if his own turmoil had been all but forgotten. As long as he stared at his name and held that pen, he could stake claim to some sense of identity.

In an ironic turn of events, the phrase _'I'm Raphael, and this identifies me'_ seemed like something calming, grounding. He needed to affirm that much. He needed to attach himself to something that would confirm what he should already know.

Reassurance.

Something to do with virility...

His thoughts, that name on paper, it was comforting.

However, the calm that he'd so desperately grasped for completely vanished the moment he heard his shortened name _"Raph,"_ in a horrifically familiar voice.

That voice, so familiar, caused immediate stress and tension. That voice lit a fuse, and in an instant, he knew it would go off with all power and destruction packed into an atomic bomb. The moment he felt the burning heat of aspiration and sudden unadulterated enthusiasm within, he noticed a fantastic cyclone of paper that whipped about in an angry fashion before steeling itself against the ground around him, being joined by countless copies of itself. Too quickly, it formed a ring, and then a wall, and finally a dome.

Raphael had scrambled to his feet and made a dash to escape when it was at 'wall-level,' but it had been too late. Being made of paper, he'd tried to attack it. Tried to rip, gouge, and tear, but to no avail; his efforts were fruitless. For something as weak as paper, it felt stronger than steel.

Or maybe he was just that _weak_...

There was a moment of feeling helpless. But, the fact that someone had called his name- the fact that someone familiar was on the other side of his paper prison was motivation enough to hold himself together.

Motivation to hope.

After all, it was only paper. Paper was not dangerous. But it was entirely too white. Too plain. Too unsettling.

Before long, he grew restless, irritable. Surrounded by white walls of nothing but... _nothing_.

Like being trapped in an asylum and expected to lose himself. If this white shell of a prison persisted in being bland, he imagined he very well could go mad. But he needed the little sanity he had. He needed it like he needed freedom, like he needed air.

He sought his pen from the ground and moved to write on the walls. He pressed the tip to a random spot and made a firm stroke, but- _nothing_. He tried again. And again, but was met with the same results.

When he needed it most, his pen had failed him. In a fit of frustration, he attempted to stab the pen's point through the paper wall, but it didn't even make a dent. With a strangled sound he'd never admit to releasing, he dropped the pen.

The solitude was getting to him.

The color white... too plain for the world he knew to be so chaotic.

Suddenly, a curious idea struck him. He reclaimed the pen and studied its point. It was dull, but it was still something. He tested the point against his skin, but it did nothing. It wouldn't be enough to cut- not that he was trying for mutilation; he simply needed something sharp. Compared to the dull point of the pen, he'd be better off to - _  
_

 _'My fists,'_ The thought was sudden, abrupt, but for all intent and purposes... it was _valid_. Something he could say with more certainty than he thought possible in his given state of mind.

He'd busted his knuckles with almost no effort before, and he was positive he could do it on purpose. Turning his focus to the wall, he curled his fingers, forming two tight fists as he slipped into a proper and familiar stance. Then, drawing back one arm, he slammed it forward and allowed it to connect with the too-solid paper. He repeated the process with the other fist.

Another swing. A jab. Blow after blow, he poured himself onto that wall in a way that gave him the familiar rush he'd denied for so long.

Again and again, he swung at varying speeds of succession, dragging his knuckles along the surface of the paper until he saw red- red- familiar red, etched all over.

All his knuckles thoroughly split and spilling their own tainted red ink, Raphael took a shaky hand and, with a knuckle pressed to a clean part of the wall, he carefully began to script in large, blocky letters, moving to use another knuckle when the smear of blood ran too thin.

The letters...

 _R._  
A.  
P.  
H.  
A.  
E.  
L.

For as long as he could stare at his name, he could be sure... He knew... There was security in there. The red, familiar as it could be, was very much a part of him in every way, starkly contrasting the pristine and conforming white that he loathed... That was him. The _red_ , the _name_. All of it. And for as long as possible, he'd hold onto that fact.


	22. Ch 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: Half of this chapter is mostly Raphael in his thoughts. I'm edging towards another plot point, and it'll start to come together towards the end of this chapter when we welcome a guest character: Professor Jordan Perry- the scientist from TMNT II: Secret of the Ooze.   
> -I mention TGRI -not the be confused with TCRI. This was not done in error.  
> -Also, brumation comes into play.

**CH 21**

* * *

Exhaustion. Freezing cold. Tingly numbness, followed abruptly by emptiness.

Fear, guilt, and regret. A sudden bout of apathy. Apathy replaced by an emotional pain so intense that it held no name.

Fighting for his own sense of security, he couldn't hold onto anything more than his thoughts. The rest of the world seemed so far away, like a dream he only half-remembered.

 _'I should write it all down,'_ Raphael thought. _'Put it in words and hide it all away. Close the book, let the hurt fester on a page instead of inside me. Now, where's the pen? I need... Pen.'_

Caught in a haze of darkness, he tried to feel around for the object in question. The mighty pen that would cut through his misery and spare him his wounds. But, try as he might, he could not find the writing tool. His fingers would not curl in an effort to pick anything up. His hands, limp and useless, heavy, unable to do what his mind commanded.

And, all at once, for seemingly no good reason, his lungs seized.

It was torturous, as if his mind was too agitated and restless to focus on the fact that he should be breathing, yet his body knew that it needed the life-sustaining air. He could feel himself convulsing, his lungs caught between parallel rungs of activity; his brain struggled to grasp understanding of what was going on.

His eyes refused to open.

_'Can't see... Too damn dark.'_

He felt entirely too cold.

_'Too fuckin' cold.'_

Some vital and instinctual part of him warned that he was shutting down.

And, in deepest recesses of his mind, he found _acceptance_. As if his plight meant nothing simply because he was one insignificant being in a world that would sooner deny his existence than understand it. The realization was both frightening and liberating. Because, if he meant nothing to no one, then there were no true obligations.

In his mind, he withdrew, and there was safety there, among his thoughts. Where the outside world couldn't touch him. Where he couldn't cause harm to anyone but himself.

In his mind, he imagined a flurry of colors, all in contrast with one another and all quite vivid, almost fluid... because the colors moved like living beings, shifting in size and shape as they swam through empty space. Like a cosmic aquarium.

For a moment, Raphael could be content to sit and watch, unblinking, mesmerized by the impossible display- but he could only do this for a moment. Because it had a calming effect on his inner psyche, and once he'd reached any sort of tranquility, his head became too clear and too focused. Focused enough to process the turn of events.

Focused enough to once again process his feelings.

And, once emotions were brought into the picture, remaining any kind of stable was almost impossible. His own emotions -specifically his affliction and turmoil- caused an almost literal collapse of the fluid colors in his mind, like dripping paint; the colors crashed downward and melded into something of a sick earthy tone that grew darker and darker until it reached a rather nocturnal color.

Raphael couldn't properly identify the color, but he loathed it for taking away the perfect illusion he had before. Even if it was nothing more than an illusion, it had been comforting. It had been something to draw him away from the dull ache of depression that had settled and festered like a disease.

 _'Disease...'_ Another thing Raphael hated- not just the ailment, but the word as well. What it implied, what it was, and what it could do... He was quite aware that humankind was the reason for most existing diseases and cancers, just as they were the creators of the alleged cures that tended to cause other potential harms when used to counteract.

A cycle of sickness and treatment that, once started, could only be considered a constant battle, of which Death would merge as the true victor.

And humans, desperate to be both the creators and destroyers- the Alpha and Omega, were conceited enough to self-exonerate their deeds; to overlook the damage they caused as long as it brought them money and recognition.

Because, that's what humans did. They destroyed so they could recreate and rebuild. They attacked so they could save. They killed so they could feel alive. And they only lived because they believed it was their mandated right to claim immortality.

For that fact alone -because it _was_ a fact- Raphael could confess, he was glad not to be human.

But, that didn't mean he was glad for what he was. His physical form, he could live with it: being this green freak with an odd number of fingers and a big, heavy, practically useless shell on his back. He didn't mind his actual appearance, save for the fact that he was a freak in every sense of the word. What bothered him about himself, was the translation between heart, head, and outward expression.

Because his heart and head could very well agree with each other on a subject, but they always warred with response and imposed stress, and he favored to react with aggression. He expressed even the more tender thoughts with grunts or snarls.

There was nothing gentile or peaceful in him; he was raw and rash, insensitive. Impulsive to a fault.

His ugly nature, crude behavior, and dismal outlook couldn't be helped.

Mad passion was the force that allowed him to endure.

He wasn't the ' _let's hug it out'_ type of guy, and he never would be. He wasn't the _'we need to talk about this rationally'_ type of guy either, though he had tried to be on a number of occasions- most of which ended in either a contest of screaming or a trade of physical blows. If Raphael had to decide what kind of guy he was, as much as he hated to admit it -and he'd never admit it out loud, of course- he'd say he was a two-headed hybrid of a _one-punch assassin_ and a _coward_.

Because, he was always torn between running and fighting. His more favorable option would always be to attack with gusto, to deliver whatever beating something or someone might deserve. But, while he hated it, he hypocritically opted to run from his problems more often than not. Granted, he could face any foe without an ounce of fear, when given the pending emotional grief, pang of guilt or well of remorse, Raph would come undone in the worst way.

When he fell apart at the seams, he never simply ' _fell apart_.' He exploded. Damage was inevitable, and innocents -specifically three other turtles- often ended up caught in the crossfire.

And each time this happened, he grew more and more fearful that the damage would be permanent and un-fixable. Each time, he told himself it wouldn't happen again. Each time, he made an effort to control himself, to repress his anger, or to run off before he lashed out.

But he couldn't run all the time.

His control wasn't something caught in an iron grip. No, control was like a very real hot potato in a human child's sensitive hands- it was bound to be dropped, tossed, or thrown.

In his mind, Raphael conjured up his family: the thing he ran from most of all- the ones he lost control around too often, too easily. His brothers and sensei, and April and Casey. In his mind, he saw them all... just as he remembered them. He focused mainly on his brothers. Not in the way they were in battle or training, but in the way they were when they thought no one was looking.

When Raphael _was_ looking.

He conjured up Leonardo's sudden boast and arrogant smirk and gleaming eyes that spoke volumes of satisfaction at hard work... If Leonardo could help it, he'd never let on that he could be smug or over-confident, but whenever present, those elements hung around him so heavily it was nearly impossible to miss. And while there were many times Raphael had called him out for it, there was an understanding that even 'Fearless' deserved the flaw: his own little piece of humanity. In essence, that little bit of lavish ego was part of who he was, just as much as his honor and leadership. And Raphael wouldn't take it away.

He conjured up Donatello's awkwardly quiet laugh that only came when he was too mentally exhausted _not_ to find something funny. After going a few days with little to no sleep due to tampering with a gadget or working on repairs around the lair, it wasn't unheard of for the intelligent turtle to succumb to a mild case of stupidity. Though, Raphael suspected he might be the only one to have witnessed it more than once, the way Donatello would laugh with little provocation, more gasping than laughing, nearly choking on air before revealing some strange quote or algorithm that Raphael couldn't understand... Strange as it was, it was wholly Donatello, just the same as the high IQ and insatiable curiosity- just on a different level altogether.

He conjured up Michelangelo's sudden and intense stare, the one he only used when the situation was dire and even he knew that playtime was over. It was rare, for certain, but Raphael could recall at least a few times he'd seen that expression, both at the lair and on the battlefield. Specifically notable, it was, when Splinter had gotten pneumonia and almost didn't make it; he was on his deathbed. Everyone had looked to Michelangelo for a reason to smile and hope- everyone except Raphael whom had refused to ask so much from anyone in his over-taxed family. The youngest turtle had worn a hardened expression, and he refused any opportunity to joke or lighten the mood. Instead, he drew into a bout of intense thought; his expression was solemn and he was caught up in worry and angst. And, given the circumstance, Raphael sat alongside his younger brother and did the same.

In this line of thinking, it was almost possible for the emerald-skinned turtle not to feel so disconnected, knowing that Leonardo had pride, Donatello wasn't an unshakable machine, and that Michelangelo could also be the brooding type. The fact that all of his brothers could share those characteristics with him, it was almost a comfort. But it was also unsettling. Because, if he could take the time to know his brothers so well, he had to wonder if they'd bothered to do the same for him- to see him as something more... To reveal and review Raphael under a different light.

Probably not.

It was a silly thought, and he'd regard it no longer. There was simply no point. Muscle was muscle, and that's all it ever would be. All _he_ ever would be in their eyes.

Trapped in all his thoughts, Raphael decided that he was tired of thinking. And yet, that's all he seemed capable of doing.

His eyes... wouldn't work. He tried to blink. Tried to open them. But nothing came of his endeavors.

He didn't feel like he was asleep, but his body was unresponsive.

A sudden bout of panic speared through him. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

...

* * *

"Two days," Shredder seethed openly, his voice dripping with malice and irritation. "He's been catatonic for two days, and the best explanation you can come up with, Professor, is hibernation?"

The man in question, lanky in build with thin timid shoulders, greying hair and thick glasses, held his clipboard to his chest and shook his head in a chiding manner. "Not hibernation, sir," he explained. "The correct term is _brumation_ , which is the reptilian equivalent to a mammal's hibernation."

"I really don't care what it's called. I need Raphael awake. I've been more than patient enough, waiting for him to adjust and deal with his own petty teenage angst. I am not a parent, and I won't act like one. Raphael needs to shape up for his next pending assignment, and there is a very short window of opportunity to-"

"Sir, you must understand, this is something that can last for several weeks. It's not a matter of waking him up; his body has defensively shut itself down. His immune system is compromised, and I can't be certain if it is due to his reptilian instincts or if it has something to do with his mutation."

Shredder glared at the man in the lab coat, drawing in slow deep breaths. "One month," he said finally. "If he is not alert and operative in one month, you're done." He did not bother to elaborate the ' _or else_ ' that was implied.

The professor understood well enough, though his breath hitched and he bit back a protest. Because, even in a normal captive reptile with favorable living conditions, brumation was still common and could last days, weeks, or even months. He couldn't even begin to guess how long a mutated humanoid turtle might be stuck in a near-comatose state.

Ordinarily, the shifting in temperature wouldn't warrant such an abrupt bodily shut-down without warning; the reptile had lived his life with the changing seasons and he was conditioned to handle it well enough with only slight lethargy in the colder months, but the lair- his home- had always been at least a little chilled and damp, so the contrast hadn't been as severe as it could have been. Then, during his stay at Central, he spent a fair amount of time retiring to his personal quarters, where a heater was on near-constantly, despite the fact that the weather was already fair in warmth; his body had adapted to the added swelter and, after his trip to the Barracks, the sudden chill coupled with excess stress was a literal shock to his system. When morning had come, no one was able to rouse him for breakfast or training.

It had been two days since then.

Shredder, refusing to admit his folly, called in the assistance of Professor Jordan Perry, a former worker and representative to the company TGRI. Perry had his own share of experience in handling and disposing of the 'ooze' that had resulted in the turtles' mutation, and if anyone would understand the mutagenic properties, it would be him.

And, being the curious man that he was, Perry could not refuse an opportunity to study and observe the mutant.

"If he's as reptilian as I think he is, he should have plenty of nutrition reserved for this occasion but he still requires hydration. And, for obvious reasons, he would need a complete physical examination. And there are a number of tests that I-"

"One month," Shredder interrupted, his tone clipped and final, allowing no room for argument. "He needs to be on his feet and able-bodied in one month. If not, you are replaceable, Professor."


	23. Ch 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: Bro-time between Don and Mike, followed by a checkup on Raphael.

**CH 22**

* * *

_[Hamato Clan]_

It had been well over two weeks- just shy of three- since the Hamato clan had encountered Raphael and he denounced his belonging. Each night after that had been very much the same. Leo and Splinter would meditate and Don and Mikey would scour the city with or without the aide of Casey. April's involvement varied; she was a working woman with social obligations that seemed to almost drive a wedge between herself and her mutant comrades.

And while they appeared miffed, no one faulted her for that. She was human; she had a life that could easily allow her to remain between the rooftops and sewers, whereas her mutant friends could mainly choose one or the other; for them, there was nothing in between. The cluttered streets were not ever something they could peruse at leisure.

Daytime seemed to be a dividing factor between themselves and humanity.

Still, differences aside, everyone tended their vices and worked the search in their own right.

While Leo had come close to making contact during that first night's meditation, every following attempt had been in vain. Either he couldn't reach the astral realm, or he was met with little more than the white dome that imprisoned his brother's spirit. Leo had approached the dome, hoping to find a way to breech it and get through to his lost sibling, but to no avail. That dome, it was not just some paper prison; it was something much too strong and far more heinous, impervious. Leo had searched and searched for a weak spot, but there was nothing.

Worse than Leo's plight, was Splinter's. The old rat had tried hard, his patience infinite, to reach his lost son. But no matter how many trips he made to the realm of spirits, he couldn't find a trace of Raphael's burning passion. Where Leo could at least find a prison, Splinter found an empty chasm. And the rat couldn't help thinking the worst... _'Raphael, my son. Can you hear me? Have I really lost you? Did I push you away, into this darkness? Why is it, that I cannot connect with you, not even in spirit?'_

Their meditation sessions would start early and end late. Hours of simply sitting and trying to achieve that bit of enlightenment that would chance them that much closer to Raphael.

And while they sought the emerald turtle spiritually, the other mutants- Don and Mikey, they sought him physically. Their searches were frequent and thorough, leaving no building left unchecked, no rock left unturned- and courtesy of both Donatello and Casey, no thug left unquestioned (and battered).

Hope was a diminishing factor, but they all held strong. Michelangelo especially fought to keep his spirits up, but the light in his eyes had dimmed and his jokes held no spark.

"So, if two people get together," Mikey began, "and they... y'know... _do it_ , it's called a twosome, right?" He jumped to the next rooftop and waited for Donatello to catch up with him before continuing. "And, if three or four people hook up and... y'know... bang-bang their uglies together, it's called a threesome or foursome, right?"

Don pushed off and tried to keep pace with his little brother while listening to his babble; he gave a slight nod but thought little of what was actually being said.

"Sooo," the orange-banded ninja pressed onwards. "I guess, Donnie, I could call you handsome. Right?" He stopped running then, a grin stretching between his cheeks.

Don stopped beside him, breathing deeply and blinking slowly in an attempt to process what he'd just heard. "Wait, what?" He was perplexed, adequately so.

Michelangelo heaved an exaggerated sigh. "You're supposed to be the genius, Donnie. Think about this a minute. Two people fuck, it's a twosome. Three people- threesome. Four- foursome, right? So, if you're handsome, then you must-"

Don carefully blanked his face as the joke registered. "I get it. It's a masturbation joke. Mikey, that's-"

"Hilarious? I know. I can't wait to tell Raph." Mike was smiling; the expression was soft, but it was genuine as he moved to sit on the roof, his legs dangling over the edge. "Raph will think it's funny. He might even randomly start calling Leo handsome, just for spite." That smile was slight but unwavering.

Don joined his brother, sitting beside him. "Mike..." He wanted to continue the search- they both did, but if his brother was stopping, there had to be a good reason. Something weighing heavily on his mind. And whatever it was, it was just one more thing for the calm genius to fix.

The orange-clad turtle braced his hands against his knees and leaned dangerously over the ledge, peering at the busy city below. Then he leaned back and looked skyward, appearing awed. "Raph would love to be up here; it's a clear night, Donnie." He glanced at his purple-banded brother. Then he raised his hand and reached out as far as he could, towards nothing. "Raphie liked the stars, Donnie... They're like a hundred flashlights in the sky."

Don looked like he wanted to comment on the sheer number of stars, but he refrained, simply watching Mikey's curious new behavior.

Mike dropped his hand into his lap; his gaze fell with it and he took on a crestfallen expression. "Ever think... he... like," he trailed off, words jumbling. He drew in a breath and tried again. "Raph, like, has always lived in his own world, hasn't he? It's like, he and I can both look at the same thing, but we'd never really _see_ the same thing. Not the same way, anyways. I think of the city and see people and music and pizza. He looks at the city and, I don't even know what he sees." He bit his lower lip and shifted uncomfortably. "I feel like, sometimes, I don't know him very well. Like, maybe he's a stranger just livin' with us. And now, he's not even that."

Don placed a hand on Mike's shoulder but withdrew when he felt his brother tense. "It doesn't matter, Mikey," Don said quietly, his own gaze sweeping over the rooftops in surveillance. Part of him wanted to finish this conversation so they could continue their search. There was so much of the city left to be combed. "None of that matters until we get Raphael back home with us. Then, and only then, we'll bother to repair the cracks in our familial bond. We need all the pieces before we glue them together. Until then, we hold onto what we've got."

Michelangelo gave a nod and opened his mouth to speak, but he closed it before anything could come out. Something was eating at him, but now wouldn't be a good time to voice it. Or, would it?

"Donnie, I did something bad."

Donatello cast a sidelong glance at his brother. "Oh?" the word was simple, noncommittal, and just vague enough to invite elaboration.

The younger turtle inhaled sharply and got to his feet. "First, you have to promise not to hate me for it. And you can't hate Raphie either."

Don frowned, his browline creased as he slowly got to his feet as well, following Michelangelo's lead. "Mikey, what's wrong?" His prior thoughts halted, he was notably concerned.

"Promise me..."

"Mikey, I promise, but what-"

"Don, you know how Raphie hurt someone? When I was unconscious and he- With his sai, he...-"

Don's breath hitched; he didn't like where this conversation was going. "Yeah..."

"Well, of the four of us, Donnie," Mikey's voice pitched lower, until it was barely above a whisper. "Raph wasn't the first turtle to kill a human... I was." The confession was soft spoken, but the words and voice were thick as if they'd fallen from a heavy tongue and a heavier heart.

Donatello, the turtle with all the answers, suddenly didn't know the proper response to give. It was as if his cognitive abilities had abandoned him. And, in the absence of the appropriate words, he offered a small sympathetic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Because, how else was he supposed to respond? He wouldn't lie and act like everything was fine; pity wasn't an option; and everyone was already suffering more than their fair share of sadness.

Then... in the blink of an eye, as if someone had simply clicked a switch, Mikey was smiling again. Traces of worry and guilt, all gone. "Shell, Donnie, it's a lot easier to let the cat out of the bag than to keep it in! Now, c'mon! If we hurry, we can catch April and Casey! We'll get our search party on, and then nab some Chinese! But remember, if you don't eat the cookie, the fortune doesn't come true, bro! And we could all use a good fortune..."

...

* * *

_[Raphael]_

The world of consciousness would come to Raphael in flashes of white. Several brief flashes of white with long periods in between. When his eyes finally opened, they fluttered in an attempt to adjust to an unnatural brightness in an unfamiliar environment. He grimaced and twisted his head to the side, burying his face against a plush pillow in an attempt to shy away from the suffocating light.

Realization hit him in slow increments.

He shifted his body, felt cool crisp sheets against his flesh and pressed his face harder into the pillow.

He was on a bed, near a UVB bulb in a heat lamp that was directed at him: less than two feet from his face.

So bright... but warm. Comforting warmth with a splitting headache. As if he'd stared into the sun like a complete moron.

_'Fuckin' light... Kill it.'_

He slowly lifted his head and coaxed his eyes open so that he could look around. He propped himself up into a sitting position and couldn't help glaring at an uncomfortable pull in his arm where an IV had been inserted, dripping a clear fluid into him. His vocal cords vibrated as he attempted to growl but his throat felt too tight; the slightest motion among his vocals caused a terrible straining soreness.

_'Fuck... Why does that hurt? Sore. Worse than fuckin' laryngitis.'_

He tried to swallow. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt thick and pasty against the roof of his mouth. But he had to swallow to investigate the strange new ache in his throat. Oh, fuck did it hurt. To swallow. Even the passage of air through his esophagus came with a slight twinge of agitation.

He grit his teeth and pressed a hand to his throat, trying to nurse the hurt away from the outside; it was impossible, he knew, but he still tried.

He soon gave up and decided that the ache was manageable as long as he didn't add the stress of speaking. Or making any noise, really.

This decided, he took in his surroundings.

White. Too much white. It almost made him angry to see the color- or lack thereof. Everything was sterile, stainless steel and white. White and the reflection of more white. He could smell disinfectant heavy in the air, and it made him nauseous.

One word came to mind: _Infirmary_.

He turned his attention to the needle in his arm. He supposed it could be saline to keep him hydrated, or some kind of medicine... He was tired, but he didn't feel drugged, so there was no cause for alarm as far as he could tell.

Apart from having one nasty sore throat and a light-induced headache, he supposed he was fine.

Of course, part of him longed to look over and see his purple-banded brother walk through the door with a lab coat and a diagnosis and a soft smile. Oh, what he wouldn't give to see those kind calm eyes directed at him and letting him know that he had nothing to worry about...

But this was not the lair.

Donatello was not his doctor.

And aside from the fact that he felt like shit, he didn't know what happened to land him on bed rest. -If his stomach was anything to go on, he hadn't eaten in a while.

He almost salivated at the mere thought of food. Any food, really; he didn't care what it was. At this point, he'd eagerly scarf down any of Michelangelo's crazy cuisines without protest.

If Michelangelo had been there.

But he was not.

So, hungry, confused, tired, and more than a little frustrated at not having answers, Raphael decided that he could do one of three things.

Option one: _wait_. Which he refused.  
Option two: _call for assistance like a helpless tot or cripple._ Which he refused.  
Option three _: get up and do something_. Which sounded like a pretty good idea.

Sitting up a little straighter, he disentangled himself from the sheets and turned to slide his legs over the side of the bed.

His shell was between himself and the light; now he could feel the warmth without staring into it. After a moment of simply sitting there, he concluded that he didn't mind the light as long as he didn't have to risk potential blindness. The heat was almost invigorating. Had he not been high-strung about his current predicament, he might have taken a moment to enjoy the warmth.

But there was never time for simple pleasantries. Not in his former home, and certainly not while he operated under the Shredder.

He focused his attention on the IV and determined whether or not it was important- he decided that _nothing_ warranted a damn needle to be stuck in his arm- and promptly ripped it out. Satisfied with that, he moved his feet to the floor and began to ease his weight from the bed to the support of his legs.

This proved to be more difficult than it should have.

His body felt stiff; it was unsettling. His muscles felt tight, coiled and rusty, and they pulled and cramped with little provocation. His legs felt weak, unwilling to support him for the first several seconds; he kept one hand on the bed and braced the other against the wall to prevent himself from falling. He only let up on his crutch when he felt confident that his legs weren't going to morph into something less like legs and more like pasta.

Once standing and sure of his balance, he trained his sight on the door that would lead him out of the infirmary, and he proceeded. His steps were slow and careful; his feet clapped against the cold floor with less stealth than usual, but he didn't care at the moment.

His goal was to just get the fuck out of that white room.

He reached the door. It didn't have a handle, but it held a silver lever. He gripped it and gave it a turn. - _Nothing._ Angered, he tried again, turning it down and back again, wiggling it. He did it again and again, getting more rapid with his movements as his frustration escalated.

Justifiably miffed, he drew his hand away from the lever and slammed the heal of his hand into the door several times.

 _'C'mon already. Open the fuck up. Mutant turtle in here, kinda locked in. Don't make me break dis door down,'_ he thought with a sneer, anger baiting his thoughts as they swirled around in his head. He slammed his fist against the door, hard and loud. Then he chanced a glance towards the door's hinges, wondering if he could just remove it altogether. The idea was there, but it did nothing to quell the fact that he was stuck in there to begin with.

_'Trapped. Deliberately put in here...'_

The realization was a cold one. The fact that he was literally locked in. It pissed him off first and foremost.

He banged on the door a few more times for good measure; when hitting the door proved to be utterly useless, he pressed both palms against the door and rested his forehead against the cool metal surface.

If Leonardo had been there, he'd ninja his way out without a problem.

But Leonardo was not there.

This room was Raphael's hell. No one else's. He was alone in his endeavor. Alone in his thoughts. Alone in his plight. And it had been his own doing. There was no longer a point in worrying about ' _why_ ' things were the way they were; instead, he needed to focus on what he was going to do.

Would there be any fixing on his part, or would he dive further down the rabbit hole?

He closed his eyes and tried to think of what would land him in the infirmary, alone and locked in.

He drew in a sharp breath and was reminded again of the stinging sensation in his throat.

 _'Could that be it? Am I sick? Dis some kind of quarantine?'_ It was the first thought that came to his mind in regards to his sudden lack of speech, and he mulled it over. He certainly didn't feel sick, not really. But it was possible.

_'People die every day because they feel healthy and don't know they're sick. Maybe I got sick or somethin'. But that don't explain why the door's locked from the outside.'_

He sighed and pushed away from the door before resting a hand against his tender throat and lightly rubbing the column; this did nothing to soothe him. He turned his shell to the door and leaned against it, giving the room another survey. There had to be some hint, somewhere, about what he was doing there. But, as he glanced around, the room looked just as it should, nothing out of place, really... though, his eyes found themselves drawn to a camera mounted in the corner of the room.

Alone or not, someone was _watching_ him.

That was cause enough for alarm.

His senses were on high alert, every part of him hyper-sensitized.

A sudden curiosity got the better of him, and he moved away from the door. He grabbed a waste bin and carelessly dumped the contents onto the floor; he glanced through them: the needles, the bloody cotton swabs and band-aids, the latex gloves and tongue depressors- standard shit he couldn't read too much into. The waste bin still caught between his hands, he stepped over the pile of trash and closer to the camera. He placed the bin bottom-up and stood on it like a step stool so he could properly reach the camera.

_'Just 'cause I can't make a ruckus, don't mean I can't do anythin'. Let's see what we got here.'_

The red light indicated that it was in use.

_'Well, duh. Why have a camera installed and not use it?'_

He reached a hand to it and assessed how securely it was mounted; the screws were tight in the bracket. Still, he adjusted the camera angle so that he could get a view of the connecting cables.

Techno-shit was not his area of expertise, but he wasn't an idiot, and having a brainy brother who liked to talk as he worked, it was almost impossible not to pick up some tricks now and then.

 _'If I ever get the chance to thank Donatello...'_ Raphael couldn't help the thought. He might have smiled if he honestly felt that he'd get the chance to thank his genius brother for unwittingly teaching him. The odds were slim, he knew. Even then, he suspected that he'd manage to screw up so that his gratitude came out sounding sarcastic; it would be just like him to turn something nice into something foul just by the way his voice sounded.

He _did_ growl then. At himself. And he regretted it instantly. His throat burned, as if it was on fire. As if he'd swallowed shards of glass...

 _'Fuck! Somethin's goin' on here, and I ain't gonna be the butt of someone's joke.'_ He glared at the camera, his own expression dark and menacing. _'Someone's behind the camera. I'm locked in here. But if I take out the camera, someone would almost have ta come and check on me personally, right? Which means they'd have ta come through the door...'_

The gears in his head were spinning, and he focused on that to avoid thinking about the soreness in his throat.

With keen eyes, Raphael regarded the cables behind the camera. He noted the color-coded ports. Just by looking, he would be able to tell if the camera collected audio and visual, or just visual. It mattered little, but it was something worth knowing.

As expected, there was no cable for audio.

He could be seen, but not heard. Not that he was able to talk up a storm... But if he could, he was pretty sure he'd be happy to supply two very choice words that rhymed with: _Tuck_ and _Moo_.

Pushing the thought aside, he trained his attention on the camera that was mere inches from his face. It was an easy decision that, regardless of what feed it was transmitting, he didn't want the prying eyes of someone on him while he was essentially locked in a box. He was not some animal in an exhibit. And, if he cut off the little 'nature documentary,' his observer would have no choice but to come in person. And that was a meeting Raphael was looking forward to at the moment.

A chance to get his hands on whoever decided it was perfectly okay to treat him like a diseased monkey.

Wrapping his fingers around a little black wire in the back of the camera, he gave a firm yank and disconnected the cord. He watched the red light die almost instantly. Then he hopped off the makeshift stool and began to pace the room. Two laps into his bout of pacing and fatigue began to set in prematurely; he allowed himself to lean heavily against a counter attached to an adjourning sink.

He eyed that sink and thought of his parched throat. A small paper Dixie cup sat within reach, looking inviting enough. With little thought, he drew the cup into his hand and turned to the sink. He turned the tap and watched the water flow before dipping the cup under the spray. Leaving the water running, he brought the cup to his mouth and tossed his head back, swallowing it all in one go before refilling the cup and repeating the process several times. The cool liquid down his throat felt amazing, though it was unsettling that he could feel it go straight to his stomach. Thirst quenched, he turned the water off and looked at his little paper cup.

 _'Ya sure know how to commemorate an occasion. Looks like ya sprang fer the fine China,'_ he gave a light snort at his thoughts.

Eventually finding the energy to leave his perch at the sink, he dragged his feet across the floor and made it back to the bed where he sat down with his shell towards the light. He let out a tired sigh.

He had a lot of thoughts to sort through.

First off, what the fuck had happened? Second, how long was he expected to stay locked in a damn room? Third, when he did get out of the infirmary, what course of action would he take?

He wasn't the one to make plans.

Ever.

But here he was, alone, and that's exactly what he needed to do.

He supposed that his first and second question could be answered together, but the third couldn't even be rightfully considered until the first two had been exploited.

He'd barely begun to sift through his thoughts when he heard soft footsteps coming from outside the room, presumably from a hall. The soft steps paused just beyond the door; and as Raphael stilled his breath and focused on his hearing, he was able to make out the sound of jingling keys.

Then, a key scraped against a lock as it was inserted.

The key was turned, the tumblers in the lock moving and becoming properly aligned.

At long last, the door was opened and Raphael moved to his feet unsteadily, his movements hurried and less than graceful as he held his weight and slid his feet apart for better balance. Like any other caged animal, he was ready to bite the hand that fed him.


	24. Ch 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference -example: Flappy Bird. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: A little more on Raph here, and... I'm edging towards another plot point. Within the next couple chapters, Raphael gets an upgrade. For a preview, I've done amateur fan art; the link can be found on my profile.

**CH 23**

* * *

At long last, the door was opened and Raphael moved to his feet unsteadily, his movements hurried and less than graceful as he held his weight and slid his feet apart for better balance. Like any other caged animal, he was ready to bite the hand that fed him.

That is, until he realized just who his pending visitor was.

Raphael had expected Shredder (or, if he'd forgone the armor: Soupy), or even a mad scientist of some sort. He was prepared to wring someone's neck, or at least offer a good thrashing- to the best of his current abilities, of course.

But what Raphael wasn't prepared for, was an unmasked teen to hobble in on a pair of crutches, a backpack slung over his shoulder as if he'd just got off from school. Looking at him, the teen was familiar enough. He could recognize the face, the shaggy brown hair, and the physical build, but what the turtle struggled to process was the crutch-aided limp, the weak-muscled squint of the teen's right eye, and the array of stitches across his forehead that cut through his eyebrow and angled down his temple.

Raph's aggression abated and his expression turned blank, dazed, unable to quite grasp what he was seeing.

The teen hobbled further in and shut the door behind himself. "You okay?" he asked, pulling the crutches out from under himself and bracing himself on one leg as he set his aid aside and dropped into a chair.

Raph searched his memory vault for the young Foot's name. _'Gunner,'_ he thought, unable to get his throat to work without strain. He pulled the name to recognition, but he still couldn't quite place the kid's condition.

The teen flashed an awkward smile. "Hey, Raphael. Remember me? Gunner? Sure, ya do." He slipped his backpack from his shoulder and moved it into his lap; he unzipped it and procured a brown paper sack. "You're probably hungry, but I think you'll appreciate this a bit more than food." He held the sack out towards Raphael who took it in turn.

Slightly bewildered, Raph sat on the edge of the bed, facing Gunner. He could feel the odd weight of the sack. Anger dismissed in the company of the young Foot, Raphael opened the bag and peered inside. His breath hitched at what he saw and he immediately shoved a hand in and fished out the contents. From that bag he drew out a pair of pronged blades with leather-bound hilts. A set of sais he was nostalgically familiar with. Having the items in his possession, he visibly relaxed.

The teen grinned widely before offering an explanation. "Master Shredder's got me doing Inventory til my busted leg heals up. Three more weeks of being laid up. On the bright side, I have full access to everything in stock, hence why I was able to get your sais. Plus... all this free time on my hands gives me a chance to hone my super slick ninja reflexes."

 _'You don't mean...? Kid, yer still doin' that Flappy Bird thing?'_ Raphael groaned; the sound instantly agitated his throat and caused him to wince.

Gunner blinked at the turtle. "Careful. I think they did some kind of surgery. You'll have to ask the doc later. Until then, you can borrow my notebook. You must have a ton of questions, huh?" With that, he delved back into his backpack and pulled out a notebook and pen. He passed them to Raph.

Raph set his sais on either side of him as he accepted the proffered items. He dimly noted the cover of the book labeled _American Government._ Assuming the kid needed the book for schoolwork, he opted to hand it back, but his offer was denied.

"No, trust me, you'll get more use out of it than I will. I'm flunking. Just use it to write stuff. It's gotta be driving you nuts not to talk."

Rolling his eyes, Raph flipped the book open to a blank page and sloppily scripted a series of comments and queries. He spent a couple minutes writing, and when he lifted his head to regard the teen, Gunner was thumb-deep in his phone, working Flappy Bird between the pipes. Seeing this, Raph narrowed his eyes, rolled the notebook up like a newspaper and swatted the teen in the shoulder.

"Wha? I died! Raphael, that's not fair! I was five points away from beating my high score!" He huffed, frustrated, before noticing the notebook. "Sorry," he grumbled, taking the notebook and reading what Raph had written.

_I'm hungry. My throat hurts. And I have to piss. I need access to the fuckin' bathroom. And I need answers. Last thing I knew, I was at the Barracks. What have I missed? And what the fuck happened to you? You weren't injured last I saw ya._

Gunner read through the words before nodding. "I was supposed to bring you food, so I can do that much. Just thought you'd want your sais first; I know I would if I was in your shoes- not that you wear shoes. And I just got back from doing Inventory, so I had access anyways. As for your mighty need to urinate, uhhhh... I can get you a cup or a bottle..."

Raph had already been glaring; now his glower intensified.

Seeing this, the teen tried again. "Or, you could just use the bathroom. The door's unlocked. As for what happened to you and your throat, ya gotta ask the doc."

Raph quickly snatched the notebook again and scribbled.

_Why was I locked in ta begin with? Pissed me off..._

"Oh, it wasn't just to keep you in. It was to keep others out. Some of the guys didn't wanna leave you alone, and you needed rest. You could have died, or something."

Having some of his questions answered, Raph relaxed a little more, but he was far from satisfied. He reached over and roughly smacked the teen's casted leg, urging him to keep talking.

"Gah! Okay, I get it. You asked about my injury." He shifted to pull his leg out of range of another plausible assault. "It's a little fuzzy now, but... a few weeks back, when we went out for that stealth mission-"

Raph nodded as he listened. _'That's right. Gunner was one of the four Footies I'd taken with me.'_

"I got caught up with that redhead," the teen said, his face twisting with annoyance and indignity. "She caught me right here," he pointed to the uneven row of stitches that marred his face. "She got me with a brick. Knocked me out. I don't even remember what happened to my leg; I just know that the woman did it."

Raph dropped his head into his hands, his face taking on a look of disbelief. _'April wouldn't- couldn't do something like that. Then again, she never did show up at the contruction site. And Shredda did say somethin' about April injuring one of the Foot, but I thought he was lying. Then again, as far as I know, he hasn't really lied to me. Hasn't really done anythin'. Even my brothers- the... reptiles...- Even they have gone unharmed, just as he promised.'_ He sighed inaudibly.

"Raphael," Gunner spoke again, sitting up a little straighter. "I'll go get you something to eat, and I'll bring the doc with me. That way you can find out how soon you can get back in action. It's no fun being out of commission, believe me. And with me already doing Inventory, I'd hate to see what boring job they'd saddle you with." He paused, looking thoughtful before plastering a grin onto his face. "I'll be back. Until then, hone your ninja reflexes!" With that, he tossed his phone onto the bed beside Raph and carefully got to his feet; he zipped and pulled his backpack on and grabbed for his crutches. Finally, he turned to the door and made a hobbling exit.

Raph just sat there, expression decidedly blank. He honestly wasn't sure what to make of the situation, but he supposed the sooner he got his answers from the doc, the better. And so, with nothing better to do, he pulled Gunner's phone into his hand, thumbed the lockscreen away and tapped on the Flappy Bird icon. The cheerful screen presented itself and he pressed Play.

One tap later, the bird was doing a nosedive into the ground.

Raph narrowed his eyes.

_'Damn bird. Looks more like one of those funky fish from Mario. Don't look nothin' like a damn bird.'_

A few taps into the next round, and he came to a set of pipes. He guided the bird between them and heard the telltale chime of success, only to smack into the next wall.

Raph inhaled deeply, already getting fairly frustrated. But, with a slow exhale through his nostrils, he tried again.

And again.

And again.

_'How many birds am I gonna kill?! I fuckin' hate this game. It's not even a game! It's a slaughter! And gravity's the fuckin' murderer!'_

One more try, and...

_-Chime. Flap, flap, flap. Chime. Flap, flap..._

_'C'mon, you stupid bird. Between the damn pipes. Don't you dare fuckin' die on me.'_

_-Chime. Flap, flap, flap... CRASH!_

And... at long last, Raphael lost his patience. He tightened his grip on the android before hurling it across the room; it smashed against the wall and clattered to the floor. He stared at the phone with his face twisted into a scowl. After several seconds, the expression fell away and a small pool of guilt formed in the pit of his empty stomach.

 _'I didn't break Gunner's phone, did I?'_ In truth, he felt bad, knowing that the teen would be laid up with little to do, and now even his phone might not be a source of viable entertainment. Reluctantly, Raph got to his feet and sauntered over to the phone; he knelt down and picked it up, looking it over. To his relief, it appeared unharmed. Not a crack to be seen, courtesy of the protective casing. He swiped his thumb over the screen and was met with the sight of his Flappy Bird score.

A proud _3_ _8_ beamed at him.

Phone in hand, he shuffled back to the bed and took his seat. He felt the UVB light wash over him, and he wouldn't deny that the warmth was something he could get used to. Reaching back to rearrange and fluff the pillow on the bed, he laid back and dropped the phone next to his sais before pulling the notebook to him. He bent his knees at a sharp angle and rested the book against his legs like an easel before pressing the pen to a blank page.

_Doc, yer already pissin' me off. Ya better start explainin'. NOW._

No sooner had he finished the sentence, and the door was once again opening. Gunner limped in with mild difficulty, crutches gone as he carried a dining tray; behind him trailed an older man with greying hair and thick glasses. The man wore a lab coat with a nametag that boasted his degree and name. But Raph only bothered to note the name.

Professor Jordan Perry.

Gunner set the tray on a counter near the sink before approaching Raph and reclaiming the phone. "I'll give you and the doc some time alone." He looked the turtle in the eye for a long moment before shifting his gaze to glance at the pair of sais. It was a wordless gesture, but Raph got the meaning loud and clear.

_'Just in case...'_

In case of what, Raph couldn't be sure. But if Gunner was wary, Raph wouldn't let let his guard down. He watched Gunner make a slow and awkward exit before he sat up and squared his shoulders. Gripping the notebook, he thrust it towards the professor, willing him to read the note.

Perry looked startled for a moment before adjusting his glasses. "Demanding for a reptile, aren't you? Very well. I'm Professor Jordan Perry, former worker and spokesman for the company TGRI, and-"

Raph waved him off, exasperated that he wasn't getting the information he wanted. He drew the pen to paper once more, shoulders hunched as he scribbled in a frenzy.

_I don't need yer whole life's story. Start with what landed me in the fuckin' infirmary. And what's wrong with my throat, ya jackass?!_

Reading the note, the professor stared dumbly before offering an answer. "In the short time you've been here, it seems as if your mutated body has self-adapted to the warmer temperatures in your living quarters. Going from the fair heat to extreme cold put you in a state of brumation, which is similar to hibernation in mammals. While this is normal in reptiles, your mutated humanoid self appears to have registered the dormant state as a coma."

Raph narrowed his eyes and pointed a lone finger to his throat before mouthing a silent threat that failed to come off as malicious as he intended, but at least it goaded the man to keep going in his explanation.

"Your throat may very well be tender until it heals. You see, during a rather thorough examination, I found abnormal cell growth along your esophageal lymphoids. The tissue around the area was promptly cut, removed and sent out for testing. However, the actual soreness inside is most likely due to an improperly lubricated camera that passed through-" He trailed off, a puzzled expression on his face. "You're far more human-like than I thought possible. I honestly thought I'd have more room to work, though your esophagus is as narrow as any human's I've encountered. You'll have to forgive me for the camera scraping against your vocal chords. I suspect it will heal soon enough, though your state of brumation seemed to have slowed the healing process."

Raph listened to the professor's explanation, but he only took in the shortened version of it.

Essentially, his body's weakness to the cold was what landed him in the infirmary with a mad scientist poking and prodding at his anatomy. As for why he couldn't talk and his throat felt on fire, it was because the douchebag shoved a camera down his throat and cut a piece out of him.

The injustice infuriated him. He clenched his teeth, and his shoulders shook with pent up aggression and building stress.

"Now, now, turtle, we'll have none of that. I have full permission to sedate you if you give me any trouble."

 _'I should wring yer neck,'_ Raph thought bitterly. _'I don't care how fast ya think you could sedate me; I could put ya down with a single punch. And I should!'_

And Raphael would have, had the re-opening of that door not caught his attention. And the person that entered...

Raphael glared heatedly, just barely managing to force back the growl that wanted to bubble forth as Shredder approached, unarmored.

Unable to use his voice, Raphael resorted to the notebook.

_FUCK YOU, SHREDDA!_

He flashed the words angrily at the intruding man.

"Oh, Raphael? Are you not going to call me ' _Soupy_?' In our time apart, I dare say that I missed the fond nickname, the banter, the callous mannerisms you exibit..."

Palming his face in exasperation, Raph scribbled again.

_I like Soupy. But right now, I ain't likin' you so much. Ya gotta earn it, dumbass. Respect ain't somethin' ya just give out_

Shredder read the words and considered them before raising a thin brow. "So, you _do_ respect me? And you admit it..." He didn't bother holding back the smirk. "I shouldn't be surprised, not after all the trouble I've gone through for you."

Pen on paper, writing to combat speech.

_Ya didn't do me any favors. All ya did was fuck up and prove that I ain't so expendable. Ya need me fer somethin'. Now quit dodgin' the subject and tell me what the fuck it is!_

The Shredder read the words as they were presented and straightened his posture to give off a more professional air. He drew in a deep breath before responding. "Very well, Raphael. I'll be honest. My kindness to you is mutually beneficial. I would not act without having something to gain in turn, as you can imagine. I have a special task lined up for you. There is a very short window of opportunity for you to accomplish this, and you must be prepared in one week. I know your body is weakened from a lack of activity, and after you eat-" he gestured to the tray of food- "you will start in on training and physical therapy." He paused and directed his attention at the professor. "You are lucky, Mr Perry. Raphael's consciousness very well may have saved your life. Had he remained unconscious, I would have-"

Not wanting to hear the threat voiced, the professor cut in: "Thank you, sir. I must say, this turtle is a fascinating study, and-"

Shredder narrowed his eyes in distaste at what he heard. "The turtle's name is _Raphael_. You'd do best to remember that. You may be the professor and a doctor, but I assure you, even _he_ outranks you here. Raphael's value exceeds your own. Do not test my patience with your ability to behave as if you are... obtuse."

If Raphael had plans to write anything down, he'd forgotten them. He could only sit there and stare with wide eyes as he worked to comprehend what had just transpired. _'Did Shredda just stick up fer me? What the shell kind of Twilight Zone episode did I just drop inta?'_ Pushing his thoughts away to be examined another day, he stretched languidly and gauged the soreness of his body before glancing towards the tray of food. His stomach growled in anticipation.

Eating... Training... Then a pending mission.

In that single moment, Raphael decided that if he focused on one thing at a time, living at Central could be bearable. One thing at a time. No more distractions. He'd never gone into something with half-assed attempts, and he wasn't going to start now. First, food. Then, training. In one week, a pending task.

For now, any other thoughts eluded the mutant, and he found himself content with the single-minded short-termed goals that would come with instant gratification.

 _'Speakin' of instant gratification... Still gotta piss. S'gonna be like puttin' a crack in the Hoover Dam, I swear.'_ With that thought, Raphael tossed his notebook aside, got up and made his way towards the exit; the bathroom was practically calling his name. Despite everything that had transpired and the fact that his throat burned with little provocation, he was in a fairly decent mood. Borderline Cloud Nine. As his thoughts settled on his priorities and the prospects of whatever mission he'd be sent on in the next week, he almost smiled.

Almost.

Part of him felt like he was forgetting something important, some big internal struggle that should've been eating away at him. But, when he felt the familiar rumble of his empty stomach, he concluded that whatever it was, it either wasn't important, or he'd deal with it later. For now, he was concerned with relieving his bladder, scarfing down some grub, and getting back to training under Shredder's approving gaze.

In one week, he'd be ready to take on the world.


	25. Ch 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: The Golden Shuriken (referenced loosely from NTNM) is a powerful ancient relic that is mentioned towards the end of the chapter.

"Swallow. Your immune system had been compromised; your physical form weakened..."

_'I don't want the damn pills.'_

"They will aid your recovery. Without them, you will be potentially bed-ridden and the slight damage in your throat will take longer to heal."

_'...Fine, but I don't have ta like it. And I'll kick yer ass if the meds make me sick or somethin'... And the moment I get my voice back, I've got some choice words fer ya. Just you wait. I'll give ya an earful. Then I'll shove my foot so far up yer ass, you'll taste my toe nails.'_

The conversation had been one-sided between the mutant and the professor. It had also taken place on Day One of Raphael's recovery.

In the days to follow the turtle's initial awakening, his throat hurt less and he'd found his voice, though he used it sparingly until the inflammation had gone away completely. He was tired at first, fatigued, but he refused to let a little muscle stiffness keep him inactive. He ate everything provided, skimping nowhere when his body sought the much-needed nutrition. He kept well hydrated as well, but his priorities rested on something far more promising.

Training.

He'd thrown himself straight into it without a second thought. At first, it was just stretching and mild cardio, but that was hardly enough for the potential he knew was within him. Even on that first day when his body protested, he threw himself at the first sparring partner he could find.

A sai in each hand, he gave it his all, working his rusted skills back into something more effective and potentially lethal. While he wasn't operating at full capacity, he managed to lay out Foot after Foot as they were willing to draw a weapon against him. From those small victories, he could taste success, and he had every intent to keep tasting it until he'd had his fill. As long as he came out on top, there were no repercussions imaginable.

He was invincible. Untouchable. In Shredder's words, he had 'done well.'

Despite his one-track mind, single train of thought, and burning desire to push himself harder, he grew weary fairly quick; his stamina needed work and the sudden bout of lethargy was unwelcome, but he could feel the small flicker of passion within.

Something he hadn't felt in a long time. And that flicker, however small, was something he didn't want to lose.

It urged him on, spurred him to keep going well passed the limit he'd mentally set for himself. He knew he was burning the candle at both ends, but he wanted to keep going. Stopping simply wasn't an option.

His days to come were filled with routine checkups with the doc, weight-lifting with Gunner being a very unhelpful and easily distracted spotter, sparring of varying intensity with choice Foot ninja and an elite or two, and a surprising number of brief encounters with Shredder, whom Raphael had returned to dubbing as ' _Soupy_.'

All things considered, life was going good.

Raphael wasn't even too choked up on the pills he'd been given by the doc, not after the initial refusal. They were something to help reduce the swelling in his throat, and of course, some vitamin supplements to aide his immune system; then the stimulants that would give him the extra boost of energy for longer training hours...

And what a boost it was, he noted at the number of reps he was able to do; the feeling of his muscles tearing from sheer exertion was something to marvel, and he longed for the burning sensation beneath his flesh as his muscles repaired and strengthened.

He dead-lifted, benched, and squatted more than twice his own weight, and he couldn't help the grin of satisfaction when he flexed and watched his muscles pump. It was physical evidence that he'd worked hard on something. It was a trophy of sorts. Proof of one more victory.

He decided that his newfound energy, the slightly inflated ego, and the seemingly endless well of motivation could have come from the pills. Vitamins or hormones or anti-inflammatory, or whatever they were. He'd been given their names- the term _dopamine_ was in there somewhere- but the words were nothing of value to him; the scientific name did little to tell him what the hell they were.

After the initial explanation of what the pills were supposed to do, he took them without question, without thought, and without complaint. All he cared for was that it helped stave off fatigue; made him feel like he could take on the world, and then some.

The energy he felt was nothing shy of incredible; it was hard to believe he'd even been dormant for three weeks. He just wanted got _go_ all the time. As if he was kicked up on some really strong caffeine.

And he had no room to complain.

He was so caught up in the feel of the weighted bar in his grip, the number of reps he could do, and the number of Foot he could take down before his potential crash; it didn't even occur to him that the pills kept coming, even when his throat wasn't an issue. They were simply another part of his day. Something to look forward to and then mentally check off as complete.

Apart from communicating while his throat was sore, Raphael hadn't written anything of value. No Journal. No budding angst or gut-wrenching feels he fought to lock up.

There were no monsters he sought to turn into fiction.

He was placated. Complacent. Busy when he was not resting. Always busy. Too caught up in this new world to even consider anything else.

He wasn't sure where this newfound contentedness came from, but he welcomed it. As he lined up alongside his black-clad brethren to run through a series of kata that he mastered with ease, it was easy to find himself self-possessed and borderline sanguine.

No one looked at him like he was out of place, and as he worked his skills by their side, he didn't feel out of place either. He simply did what he knew to do, and at the end of the day, he accepted the praise that was offered, usually in the form of a familiar hand on his shoulder and simple words that took almost no thought to process.

It was easy for Raphael to find himself satisfied.

Especially with the knowledge that he'd be sent out any day. The specifics of his mission had yet to be disclosed, but the anticipation made him feel alive. He could feel his blood pulse, heartbeat quicken, and lungs draw air more deeply. That one week of waiting felt as if it had been stretched into months, but it wasn't at all unpleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact.

However, as great as his days were, night was a different story entirely. His training done and his final meal of the day consumed, the evenings had Raphael returning to the infirmary to rest beneath the UVB lamp.

As well as his body had recovered in a remarkably short amount of time, Professor Perry insisted that Raph remain under that light. Part of the turtle wanted to return to his old room, but then he had to remind himself that there was nothing of value there anyways. Nothing but notebooks he wanted to forget, and nothing but Pennington's bandana tacked to the wall.

And, if he were to be honest, he was through grieving over one mistake. Pennington knew the risk of joining the Foot; he would have died eventually. As far as Raphael was concerned, he'd simply hurried things along. There was no use in crying over spilled milk, and he'd suffer no longer for the memory.

It was a lesson, and he'd learned from it.

He could say ' _sorry_ ' til he was blue in the face, but it would get him nowhere. No amount of pity would bring someone back from the dead. And, all Raphael could hope to do was fulfill his own obligations.

The Foot needed him. He would work himself into top condition, and he would again work with them to accomplish a common goal with trivial rewards. It was something to look forward to. Something to give him an edge and keep him going.

But, no amount of training and carefully-placed thoughts could protect him from what happened at night. When he found himself back in the infirmary. Alone. He'd discard his weapons and any gear he might have been provided- his own leather gear not something he'd been proffered, and he'd drop unceremoniously onto the bed. The blankets pulled over him, and he could only wait for the worst part of his day to commence.

Sleep, something he'd once welcomed, now haunted him; took away the pleasant vibe the rest of the day had provided and left him feeling something deep and chilled within. Despite the heat that washed over him, he found no warmth reaching through whatever fog decided to pull him into its grasp.

He hated the cold, but it only came at night as he awaited the chance to fall into a fitful slumber.

When unconsciousness finally claimed him, he dreampt something horrific and dismal. He dreampt of a small domed room that was entirely too white.

He inwardly blamed it on his new sleeping arrangements; the infirmary itself was too white and bland.

But worse and more unsettling than the white dome he dreampt of being in, was the red script that was etched along the wall.

The word was his name. Etched in his blood. He knew this. A faint part of him recalled that he'd put that word there, scraping his own raw and bloody knuckles along the pristine white surface, as if it was a canvas primed with a fresh coat of gesso awaiting him to paint his vision.

In his dream, he stared at the name, as if it was supposed to mean something more, as if there was some glorious revelation in the large blocky lettering. But no matter how long he stared, he only found confusion and frustration.

It _felt_ important.

There was something to be understood, but he couldn't grasp it. The answer- as well as the question that needed answered- eluded him.

The dream, however imposing, was stagnant. It was recurring, and nothing ever seemed to happen, yet it twisted his insides into something unrecognizable. It made him think. And thinking made him bitter, but the bitterness never made it through the hazy dream and into the world of consciousness.

For Raphael, morning couldn't come fast enough.

Especially this morning.

The week was up. Finally. Raphael had waited this long, and it felt like a small eternity had lapsed. He was quick to rise from his bed in the infirmary- _When had he started seeing the bed as 'his'?_ \- He tossed the blankets aside and got up. He stretched a bit, feeling his muscles pull and joints pop; he sighed blissfully at the feeling before glancing at the bed, rolling his eyes, and setting to work at fixing the blanket on the bed properly, tucking the corners in nice and tight.

The bed successfully made -a task that seemed like a waste of time but was decidedly something small to accomplish -one more little victory- he turned off the UVB lamp and made his way over to the counter near the sink. On the counter rested a daily pill planner he'd become well acquainted with over the past week. Flicking open the tab labeled _AM_ , he drew out a small handful of pills - _eight, eight pills_ \- and popped them into his mouth. He hated the taste and texture, the feel of them on his tongue, but he quickly focused his attention to a small plastic cup - an upgrade from the paper Dixie cup- and addressed the sink. Turning the taps, he filled the cup with water and used it to down the pills. After that, he filled the cup three more times and drank them in succession.

Turning the water off, he moved to claim his current set of gear. The black belt that holstered his sais. The criss-crossed utility straps that slung over either shoulder, specifically meant to hold smokescreen pellets, projectiles, and small blades. The leather wraps that covered his forearms from wrist to elbow. Lastly, a long-tailed scarf around his neck, a deep burgundy with a familiar yellow Foot symbol emblazoned.

Raphael was over-geared, he knew, especially for so early in the morning, but this day would be a special one. Today, he'd be given the details of his pending mission, and it would suffice to say that he was anxious. Had he lacked self-control, he might jump around like a kid at Christmas time.

But control seemed easier and easier to rein these days. And he did not rejoice and act upon infantile whim. Instead, he placed his hands at the hilt of each sai and drew strength from their presence. Then, he turned to the door.

He was glad- more than anything- that there was no need for the door to be locked again. The freedom to enter and leave the room as he pleased was not something he took for granted, though he refused to voice his gratitude over something so menial.

Even he had pride enough not to grovel and slobber at anyone's feet- or so he liked to think.

He was not an underling, and he refused to act like one.

Maybe his own ego was getting to him, but the fact remained that he was not expendable. He was something of value. He knew this, and it showed in the new way that he moved- the way he strutted with near-perfect posture, like some kind of cock of the walk.

Opening the door and stepping out, he was greeted almost immediately by Shredder; the man was armored, but his helm and menpo mask were missing. The look on his face was unreadable, but the gleam in his eyes foretold of something big being planned, and Raphael could only guess what it might be.

He'd been trying to guess, but a large part of him refused to get his hopes up too high. Whatever his pending mission was, he could only wait to find out.

"Good morning, Raphael," the human's words came effortlessly. Polite. "Would you be joining me for breakfast? It is, after all, a big day for you." His tone, deliberately light, airy, conversational.

Raph offered a grin and a dismissive hand gesture. "I gotta eat, but I can guaran-damn-tee my mind won't be on the food. I wanna know what kind of task I'm up fer."

Shredder took in the turtle's enthusiastic appearance and mission-ready gear. "Of course, Raphael." He offered a smirk and little more. "A quick meal, and I'll brief you on your mission and expectations." With that, Shredder turned to walk down the hall. His stride was brisk, assiduous, powerful. Every step was carefully measured. The way he moved demanded attention, yet denied anyone who would give it. It was a display of his own superiority.

And Raphael followed, his own stride just as arrogant, overly-confident, full of pride and ascendency. His own show of dominance over anyone who could not best him in battle: anyone inferior by his standards.

The trip to their destination was short, but not silent.

"Sleep well, Raphael? How has your morning been?"

"Slept like a rock. Haven't been up long. You?"

"My sleep was fair, but my morning has been much longer than yours."

Polite conversation. Between the leader of the Foot and a mutant turtle that was formerly pegged as an enemy and a nuisance. The idea was laughable, but if anyone dared laugh, they wouldn't live long.

The duo, bound by word and bonded by supremacy, found themselves seated at a familiar table that had already been set with expensive ware.

Well-dressed servants immediately began placing down various foods around the table before awaiting the request of beverage.

Having been in this position more than enough times to know his queue, Raphael gave his drink order without prompt. "Rum and coke."

The Shredder cast a steely-eyed glare in the turtle's direction before clearing his throat. "Is that a wise choice, Raphael? It might not mix well with your... medication."

Raphael waved him off. "It's just vitamins, right? Can't hurt." His resolve was firm, but he still turned to one of the female servants and amended, "And bring me some water too. Don't need Soupy over here to blow a gasket."

Shredder requested a fine red wine, and the two of them waited for their drinks before indulging in the food provided.

"So," Raphael said awkwardly, resting one hand at the hilt of a sai and bringing his other hand to fiddle with the utility strap that ran across his chest. "Can ya give me any details 'bout the mission? Where am I gonna go? What I gotta do? Am I takin' any Foot or goin' solo?"

Shredder looked thoughtful before simply saying: "In due time, Raphael. In due time. You must be patient."

Before long, a set of servants returned with their drink orders. Shredder's fluted wine glass was filled with the red liquid, and Raphael was offered tumbler of iced water and a multi-faceted table-glass cup of stern Russian quality, in which was the familiar dark liquid that fizzed lightly and smelled rather inviting...

He had a soft spot for rum, less potent than vodka and easier for him to maintain a clear head. And he had a soft spot for the quality of the Soviet table-glass; the hard and thick build offered assurance that he wouldn't break it if he gripped too firmly or even dropped it. He had to admire the quality.

Some distant part of his mind reasoned that, if he were a cup, he'd be that exact one. Sturdy, useful...

But he was not a cup, and the musing was short-lived.

He was a mutant turtle, and with each passing day, it was becoming less apparent as to why that fact used to bother him.

He took that thick cup into his hand and brought it to his mouth. He took only a sip at first, appreciating the taste before tossing his head back and consuming it all in a few quick swallows. After that, he turned his attention to his food and water.

He chewed carefully between bites, but not once did he focus on the way it tasted. He was sure it was good, but his mind was elsewhere. In his mind, he imagined himself slinking along shadows and jumping across rooftops. He imagined the feel of night air against his skin...

He allowed his thoughts to consume him as he ate and drank almost mindlessly.

His attention was drawn by Shredder only when the human had concluded his own meal and was decidedly ready for the all-important discussion.

"Raphael, about your mission..."

Those words got the mutant's attention in a fraction of a heartbeat. His head lifted, his shoulders squared, and his own sunset-colored eyes met that of the human's.

"I am quite aware that this goes against everything you stand for, Raphael, but tonight, you will be stealing. It cannot be helped. It is an ancient relic that should have been mine, yet its ownership eludes me, and there is no monetary price great enough to bring it into my custody."

Raphael's expression was ponderous.

_'Stealin' ain't somethin' I do, but if Soupy's dead set on gettin' his hands on it, I have no doubt that he'll get it eventually. The only difference is, if I fetch it, he'll get it sooner and I get the glory...'_

He drew in a sharp breath as he considered.

 _'One more trophy. It's just a stupid relic. Probably some dumb ol' rock, or somethin'. I could get it... I know I could. Been waitin' ta do this all week.'_ His mind made up, Raphael voiced a question. "Alright. What is it, and where am I gonna find it?"

"Patience, Raphael. You are ready, no doubt, but we will discuss this further in the throne room, where you will also be presented with new gear."

Raphael frowned, browline creasing. "New gear... You mean, like the headset?"

"No. I told you last time that you should not rely on it, though it did serve its purposes; I'm afraid it will be of no use to you for your pending task, as it will be performed in solitary. I do, however, have something new for you to try out. It is a modified low-grade subcritical multiplicator radioisotope thermoelectric generator-"

In response to hearing the technical jargon, Raphael nodded mechanically, but the glazed film that settled over his eyes was proof enough that he wasn't really listening. Such long-winded words took up too much of his head for him to bother processing.

Thankfully, Shredder seemed to catch on and simplified it. "It's a nuclear-reactive heat source that has been re-designed and engineered to properly regulate your body temperature and avoid future mishaps involving the cold. I assure you, it is perfectly safe as long as the fuel containment unit remains in tact. Should that unit break, the gamma radiation-"

And Raphael once more tuned the human out. Instead of listening to the babble, he got to his feet and waited for Shredder to do the same. In truth, Raphael didn't care how something worked as long as it got the job done, and he really didn't want to be reminded of his body's betrayal: when he'd physically shut down simply because of a little cold. It was embarrassing at best. For all intent and purposes, he just wanted to go to the throne room to discuss his upcoming task at length.

The sooner he knew what he was in for, the sooner he could plan and prepare. After all, this would be his first solo mission. And, from the way it sounded, Shredder was counting on him to succeed.

But Raphael had to be patient. It would be unwise of him to move ahead of Shredder. The man was a walking ego, and he knew better than to challenge him and risk his wrath. While Raphael suspected that he could take the man on, he wasn't about to find out. Not when he was so close to being useful.

So close to doing something that would prove that much more, just how worthy he knew he was.

_'Shredda needs me ta fetch his stupid relic. He needs me, whether he likes it or not. He can try ta put me down or act like we're all chummy, but really, what it comes down to, is the fact that he needs me. He knows... that just 'cause I got muscle, don't mean that's all I am. I'm better than that.'_

Raphael waited for the human to take his time getting up from the table, having refused to follow the turtle's lead. Once Shredder was good and ready, he stepped forth and correctly assumed that the mutant would fall in line.

He didn't bother hiding the smirk that tugged at his lips as he made his way to the elevator, then to the highest floor: to his personal throne room. With Raphael in tow, Shredder entered the lavish room, claimed his kabuto and menpo from a decorative stand, and pulled them on. The helm came first, and the menpo mask snapped over it. Then, he took his seat on the posh throne.

Raphael stood several feet away from the throne, his eyes on Shredder, awaiting the order he knew would come.

When the man spoke next, his voice came through the filtered grate of his menpo. "Kneel, Raphael."

Raphael hated this part. It was degrading. In essentially bowing before someone, he was submitting, acknowledging his place at a lower point in hierarchy. And yet, as if on auto-pilot, his knees met the floor and his gaze dropped instinctively.

Now came the worst part. The waiting. Sometimes, it would last mere seconds, and other times, it would stretch into minutes. The silence. His own lack of motion as he willingly knelt before a man he was once taught to hate with little understanding for the feud's origins.

Blind hatred... something that had been _taught_ to him. Something that held him back... Yet, even away from his former rat-master, he found it in him to hate.

Example: He absolutely hated waiting.

But it was necessary. He couldn't be sure why, but it had to be.

Then, just when he was beginning to grow restless and agitated enough to stir, Shredder's voice cut in and stilled him. Calmed him. Quelled his instability.

"The item you are after, Raphael..."

And Raphael drew in a breath, waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting...

"-is the Golden Shuriken. An ancient relic. An amulet with mystic powers sealed within. Obtain it for me, Raphael, and reap your rewards. Your praise and glory. Your victory. Obtain this for me, Raphael. Prove your worth, and you may take your place at my side. As my pupil. As my student. As my _son_."

In that moment, Raphael could almost swear that his heart had stopped.

His vision blurred, but he didn't feel angry. He couldn't begin processing what he felt. But, after several choked breaths, he found that the source of bleariness in his sight... was the building wetness that welled in the sunken depths of his eyes before escaping in trails.

But he refused to admit the tears, even as they dropped onto the floor. Just as he refused to acknowledge the shudder that racked his frame and shook his shoulders.

Because crying meant weakness, and he would not show vulnerability.

A sudden hand on his shoulder caused him to stop abruptly; his breath hitched and his head lifted, chin pulling up defiantly and iridium eyes turning to meet the gaze of the man who dared lay a hand on him in his moment of emotional deficiency.

Shredder stared at Raphael knowingly, his expression mostly hidden behind his metallic guise. As he drew his hand away, his next words were firm, portraying the fact that he was in no mood for nonsense. His words: "Rise, Raphael."

And with one last hitching breath, Raphael drew to his feet and stood at full height. His head felt both heavy and empty, but his chest heaved with swarming emotions he couldn't quite understand. Still, he drew in a harsh breath and carefully blanked his face. Emotions would do him no good when his mission was so close.

He would have to make time later, for comprehension. For now, he accepted the words and awaited further order.


	26. ch 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: Short chapter here, but it more than serves its purpose. Also, I quote Oscar Wilde here.

**CH 25**

* * *

Emotions could be stifling; Raphael knew this much. He was never the leader, the brain, or the heart, but he wasn't stupid either. More than muscle, he was _nerve_ , and like any and all nerves in the body, he felt everything. It was no wonder why control was so hard for him to grasp and maintain, but he'd been doing better since the distractions were lifted.

With Central as his home and an endless number of black-clad ninja as his brethren, he nearly felt whole; yet, it was undeniable that something was missing. Something crucial to his existence.

His mind conjured green blurs- faces that were once so clear but now looked out of focus, like smudged fingerprints.

He knew their names, their faces, their colors... He knew their former relations to him. But there was a distinct detachment. In a child's sing-song voice, he could almost hear the chant of: _'One of these things is not like the other.'_ And he was always the 'thing' that didn't belong. Too raw, too passionate, and too unstable. Too uncontrollable. Animalistic. Malignant.

A cancerous tumor among the Hamato clan. That's what he was. And with the precision of a surgeon, that tumor had been removed; its malignancy had been treated and cured, and the remaining cluster of cells had been implanted elsewhere- among the Foot, where it became deeply rooted.

In every way, Raphael was an anomaly; his bullheadedness and stubborn nature only goaded error and misjudgement, but somehow, in his new environment, he'd become something more than an overlooked statistic.

He became a stable variable waiting to be applied to an equation. He waited to find his place among the numbers, and he even chanced an estimation at their product. Ironically, he hated anything to do with mathematics. Had he come up with the metaphor himself, he'd probably be royally pissed. Probably have to take several deep breaths and then find a way to burn off the sudden spike of adrenaline fueled by feeling.

But for now, he was not thinking up analogies, metaphors, figurative bullshit that would lend him nothing but grief. He was not an emotional wreck driving further into a state of madness. In fact, he was carefully blank, awaiting orders. Awaiting praise. Awaiting whatever the human before him had to offer.

Like a child pining for attention.

 _'Look at me. Did you see that? Did I do good?'_ Simple words any excitable or insecure child might say on a regular basis. Words that Raphael had never- and would never- utter. But the thought was there... the need to have his work credited, his worth known and brought into light.

His need to be given value and appreciation.

Raphael could only stare, silent, anxious beneath the facade of apathy. Beneath his carefully pieced-together exterior was a well of boiling emotions, all fighting to get to the surface, but he quelled them, forced them beneath his flesh and down into his gut where they twisted and knotted and risked making him feel ill. The nausea was a small price to pay, to keep himself in check as he regarded the armored man.

The Shredder.

The one human who might be able to accept the rogue mutant as something more than a tool or a monster. Possibly, maybe, somehow, the man might call him son.

And Raphael considered it, the implications. In a way, this would be his chance to be the shining pupil, the perfect son... This would be his chance to garnish praise and affection; his chance to tout his own sense of honor- something he'd fiercely denied in the past, regardless to how evident its presence might have been.

Because, honor was something that belonged to Leonardo. Not Raphael. Just as none of the other turtles - _the repulsive reptiles-_ in the Hamato clan could step in and fill the role of being a reckless hothead, Raphael could not- would not- steal their positions. Everyone had their own domain to rule; the only difference was, among them all, he was the only one completely dissatisfied with his. The concept was childish and ignorant at best, petulant without a doubt, but it was all-consuming for the brooding and angsty teenager.

There was more to him than the others were willing to accept, and they opted to push him into this tiny little box of expectations.

For them, he filled those expectations. Tenfold. Then he over-filled it until there was simply nothing to do but rebel against the bindings he'd been forced into. His rebellious nature turned spiteful. In trying to elude the spite, he turned bitter and hateful. In trying to hide such negativity, he began to shut down his mind and act solely on instinct and impulse. In doing so, he found himself along a path of regret.

Regret drove him into a state of cowardice. Being anything like a coward drove him back to hatred. Hatred burned through him like acid.

And when he was alone and could do no harm to others, sometimes that acid didn't choke him up too much. Sometimes, it was tolerable. Sometimes, it was okay. It had to be.

Raphael wasn't much of a reader, but he'd found the suited words before, in a book he'd borrowed- without returning- from his genius sibling. The words stuck with him, somehow, even after all these years. Those words, dialogue. A quote from a hedonistic man in an era he could scarcely understand.

The words: _"Anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often."_

And, caught in a sea of loathing, destruction, and despair, Raphael decided it was true. He hated his anger, and he grew angry at his hatred, and the cycle continued until it devoured him in his entirety. Faced with the fact that he had little else to look forward to in life, he accepted the feelings; and, in truth, he didn't mind it after a while.

It became a means of strength.

It was only a problem when he lashed out against those he sought to protect. After all, he could protect them from enemies, but... protecting them from _himself_ , it was too hard.

But those turtles, that family- the Hamato clan, they were all so far away. Out of reach. A distant memory wrapped in a haze of distress.

He'd been lonely, lost, confused, and hurt...

But now, a new family was so close to accepting him. Unlikely humans who had pulled him from the shadows and into something entirely new but not unwelcome. And he was one task away from acceptance.

That task would be rewarded greatly, sating his desire to belong. The one thing he wanted more than anything, to fit into a greater picture without being jammed into a slot... -Like a puzzle. He didn't want to be simply lined up and pushed in, trapped between other pieces. It was a selfish thought, but he wanted to be part of something without feeling smothered or neglected. It was a nearly impossible thing to ask for, and yet, he was so close to obtaining it.

But he couldn't let his desperation show, not right now. Not when everything was so close to working in his favor.

For now, the mutant kept his emotions at bay.

He feigned patience as he accepted his new equipment: his gear. The long-winded gadgetry that Shredder had previously spoken of came in the form of a new belt. He discarded his black one in favor of a cayenne-colored device with three rings and a heated panel that rested over his abdomen.

The panel was sectioned into six facets, each designed to hold its own nuclear-reactive chemical or element. According to the Shredder, an engineer designed the belt to adjust to the core temperature of the wearer and utilize radioactive decay to produce warmth through thermocouples connected at the heat-sink. The generated heat would be partly converted into electrical energy through the _Seeback_ effect, and the arrangement of the semiconductors would allow the energy to flow at a constant loop, resulting in a heat source that would last as potentially long as the Plutonium power cell's half-life.

Housed by a sturdy containment unit with a thickness of 22 micrometers, the heated belt had the potential to last a lifetime, provided that the unit remain firmly in tact without spilling the radioactive agents.

By default, the reactors within the belt, despite the consistent electrical charge, would be triggered when the wearer's core temperature dropped below a designated point.

As Shredder simplified further to a rather apathetic - _if not bored_ \- Raphael: "Wear it, and eliminate the risk of physical dormancy."

The turtle couldn't help voicing his obvious concern. "And yer sure it's safe? Ain't it supposed ta be dangerous to have radioactive shit-"

"Raphael, do I have your trust, or don't I?"

The turtle shut his mouth and gave a nod without hesitation as he allowed the belt to be fastened behind his shell. He stared down at the sub-divided panels resting along his abdomen and was mildly surprised by the almost-tingly sensation of heat that began to pool within his stomach as the belt registered his naturally low body temperature and reacted accordingly.

It wasn't necessarily a bad or alarming feeling, but it was definitely... different.

After feeling the heat spread further within, Raphael decided the sensation was tolerable. He slipped his sais through a set of holsters at either side of the new belt and turned his attention to the additional gear that was being provided.

A respirator with a custom-fit to cover his uniquely shaped mutant mouth, colored cayenne to match the belt.

When Raphael regarded the armored human over the need for the respirator, the man simply explained: "New York is overly polluted. We must think of your health, Raphael. Wouldn't it be a shame for your _weak_ immunity to be your downfall?"

Raphael offered no protest, though he refused to have anyone put the device on him; it seemed too invasive of his personal space, to have anyone put their hands in his face. Instead, he took it in his own three-fingered hands and cautiously brought it closer, rested it over his muzzle, and secured it in place by himself. In an instant, he could taste the difference between the regular and filtered air; he could feel the difference in the way he drew in the life-sustaining oxygen from the filtered grate; while the air was decidedly cleaner, it forced him to further control his breathing. And, as he spoke next, he could hear the slight difference in his voice as it passed through the metal. "We done yet?" A simple question that showed his obvious disdain for the nuance.

"Almost," Shredder said simply before presenting Raphael with the final pieces of his new attire.

A set of heavy shoulder armor, each with three short, sharp spikes that spoke volumes of intimidation rather than function. On the metal plate below the spikes were embossed flames tinged in red...

The human took it upon himself to personally set the armored pieces on the turtle's shoulders, subjoining them in place with the utility straps that had already been adorned. Then, Shredder stepped back to look at the turtle in appraisal. The steely glint in his eyes held a bout of admiration- not for the mutant that stood before him, but for his own hand in shaping the reptile.

With a hum of approval, Shredder addressed the turtle's pending objective. "Raphael, the Golden Shuriken is being held in the Vault of a facility I will be giving you the address to. I have not been able to attain a copy of the blueprints, but I can give you its estimated location, as well as a bit of forewarning on the security you are likely to encounter. This opportunity is time-sensitive, so you'd do best not to dally. Your biggest problem should simply be getting inside. While I assure you that it is not the most high-tech establishment, they compensate with man-power. Once you successfully infiltrate, it is imperative that you exercise caution. Though you will have little to worry about, as I have taken liberty of... bribing a few officials into blanking out the cameras and looking the other way." When he finished speaking he allowed his eyes to roam over the turtle once more.

Apart from the emerald skin, obvious shell-factor, and burning gaze, the reptile was nearly unrecognizable as the misguided accidental-killer Shredder had taken in not so long ago. The new and nearly-excessive training coupled with oral steroids and amphetamines had turned him into a high-strung and easily-motivated being. His upper-body mass had increased and the sheer power behind even his least calculative attacks was something to marvel. His strength, speed, and mental capacity had grown into something that could easily back up the cockiness and arrogance that hung around him more often than not.

The difference between the _before_ and _after_ was astonishing.

While Shredder surveyed and deliberated, silence became a barrier between himself and the mutant.

That barrier lasted only a moment or two, until the human shattered it. "You have grown much in such a short amount of time, Raphael. You have made me proud. Continue to do this... For both our sakes, succeed in acquiring the Golden Shuriken. I have gone to great lengths to assist you in this task. Do not fail me, _my son_." The words that left his metal-encased mouth were bait, but they were also a promise and a warning. Their every meaning was clear.

Hearing the words and tone, Raphael's insides twisted in a way he couldn't fathom. Before he even knew what he was doing, without prompt, he dropped down on one knee and bowed his head low in reverence. "You'll get yer relic-thingy tonight," he gave his word, his vow, a promise on his honor as a ninja and as a sentient being. Then, under his breath, he whispered words he never imagined using. Through the grate of his respirator, the words came with a slight distortion, sounding just a little thicker than he'd wanted. But he'd spoken them, nonetheless: those words... "I'll get it fer ya. I promise, _Master Shredda_."

Raphael's head was low, too low to catch the sudden flash of amusement and triumph in the human's eyes. Even if he had looked up, he would probably be too lost in thought to really notice and process what Shredder's perplexing expression might have meant. His own thoughts were too busy focusing on the strange almost-sick feeling that lurked within and suddenly made itself known. All because of two little words.

 _'Master Shredda...'_ It was a whole new confession. The official abandonment of the rat that had pulled him into the sewers and expected him to be happy with his position in life. It was the official acceptance of his role beneath a new master. And while he felt sick and bile threatened to rise in his throat, he refused to be upset over the matter.

His own choices had landed him here.

The Hamato clan was safe and better off without him. And he was better off without them.

It was some sort of universal truth. And he'd hide from it no longer.

_'It's better this way.'_


	27. Ch 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: This chapter is split into two parts. The first part gives you a taste of the aftermath of Raphael's mission. The second part backtracks to exactly what happened during said mission.

**CH 26**

* * *

_[Construction Site, early the following morning, Post-Heist]_

Too early for even the sun to rise, the sky was almost black, save for the the half-moon that decked the atmosphere: a cosmic flashlight, a beacon of sorts; next to that, the only other source of light came from the vibrant glow of a pendant worn by an emerald-skinned mutant. That pendant, a brilliant gold. The relic itself was in the shape of a bladed star. It emitted a fantastic light that its current wearer failed to notice...

Raphael's mission had been a success. The Golden Shuriken was in his possession; its chain was loose around his neck- the mystic icon itself rested over the bisected pectorals of his plastron.

That golden relic, proof of his own abilities and worth. Proof of an underlying loyalty he couldn't bring himself to focus on right now.

Not under these circumstances.

His respirator was gone. His own right leg was a mess of seared flesh and blisters beneath a tight makeshift wrap. His left arm was bloody and marred by a series of nasty serrated gashes, but the blood had thickened and clotted- it would scab over soon. Yet, those injuries paled in comparison to the heavy feeling that settled in the turtle's heart as he shoveled dirt over a corpse in a nice deep hole he'd dug. That corpse, now so cold, he'd held it when it was still warm.

He knew the feeling of that body in his hands; he knew the weight of the dead. Its heft and size was notable. It wasn't small. It wasn't even _human_. But it still deserved a burial. And after successfully obtaining the mystic relic, Raphael had personally dragged the cooling and stiffening body all the way back to the familiar construction site. He picked a fair spot where the ground was soft, comprised of less clay than other parts. Then, with the same shovel he'd used to bury the Pennington family, he began to dig.

He was tired, but he wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon. Emotions subdued for the time being, he was infinitely restless and desperate for a sense of purpose.

He would not rest until he was finished, and even then, sleep would be a monster and a bully- something to mock him in his more vulnerable hours. Sleep: the mistress that would invite him into her clutches and work to destroy him from the inside out... but now was not the time to think of sleep.

He had work to do.

He plunged the tip of that shove into the earth, stamped it in a little deeper, and upturned several tufts of dirt and rock. Then, he kept going. And going. Digging deeper and deeper until his shoulders and back were sore; until a light sheen of sweat slicked his leathery skin; and, until a fair-sized hole had been made. Then, at long last, he dropped the shovel, drew the dead thing into his arms and heaved it into the pit; he'd have been gentler in his efforts if he could, but the sheer mass of the creature made it difficult.

After his hands were free of the furry thing, he straightened his posture, squared his shoulders, and stared down for several long minutes.

Silent. Not out of stealth. Not because he was a ninja. But because he'd taken a life, and he owed at least a little respect.

When his own twisted feelings felt a little more at ease, he reclaimed the shovel and proceeded to bury the remains of something that had been so lively before.

 _'I'd say sorry...'_ Raphael thought, _'but it wouldn't bring ya back. So, I won't apologize. No need ta waste words. I ain't got nothin' ta say anyways. My silence, it's the best I can offer. It ain't enough, but... it's all I got.'_ Little by little, he filled in the hole. As he worked, his mind gradually grew into something blank, something manageable. Switched to auto-pilot and allowed him to continue almost mindlessly.

To him, the world became gray-scale and muted.

It was easier that way.

The last coherent thought he remembered was: _'It's over. I just wanna go home.'_

And he willed himself not to think beyond that. Not to grieve. Not to focus on what he'd done. More importantly, he pushed away any thought of _home_ and the comfort he could only hope for. Because, whatever the term 'home' once meant, it didn't mean the same thing. Not anymore. _Home_ stopped being a place to retire when his work was done. In his mind, _home_ wasn't tangible. It wasn't something he could return to. It was something he'd lost- a treasure that would forever elude his capture.

A fragmented memory, distorted and wrought with ruin.

Home wasn't a lair hidden beneath the streets. And home wasn't Central, but that was the closest thing he had.

And as he finished packing the dirt over the unmarked grave, he was too damn tired to make sense of anything. So, roughly shoving the head of the shovel into a mound of dirt and leaving it there, he turned to leave.

He stopped trying to think. He let his mind go. Set it free. Gave into something strange and harrowing that resided within.

Habitual stealth as his aid, he began making his way back to Central despite his pronounced limp, he didn't pay any attention to the relic as its glow became brighter and brighter and a haze of ambiguity began to cloud over his mind.

...

* * *

_[Earlier that evening]_

The sun had gone down. The dark hours approached. It was mission-time at now'o'clock. An ancient relic of mystic forgery awaited a certain mutant's thieving hands. That's what it all boiled down to.

Before departure, Shredder had mentioned something of primitive security, but he'd left out a few details. He apparently hadn't saw fit to mention the _landmines_ that littered a field as a precursor to actually _getting_ to his destination. Outdated method or not, someone had gone through the trouble of warding off intruders, which could only lead Raphael to believe that whatever was inside that facility _had_ to be important.

Still... landmines... were not something he'd expected. Trip wires, hired guns, things of the like, maybe. Lasers and motion detectors, bring it on. But the mines...

Raphael supposed that the fairly minute explosions would go unnoticed out in the middle of nowhere, miles away from civilians and city life; any ' _boom_ ' and billow of smoke would fall on deaf ears and blind eyes should the turtle trigger _another_ one. Because, in absence of warning, he had carelessly bumped his foot against one that had been packed into the ground and concealed by dirt and grass. Once his foot had disturbed the previously latent apparatus, Raphael just barely managed to catch a faint beeping sound, and that was all the warning he received before the mine erupted in a show of sound, heat, and smoke.

The explosion had been small, controlled, and did minimal damage, considering, but flesh on the shin and calf of his right leg was scorched, and small traces of unforgiving shrapnel had found itself embedded- parts of his skin... shredded and peeled.

Raphael had cursed quietly at the happening, gritting his teeth and chanting a mantra of expletives that came out too muffled to be translated. With a series of deep breaths, he willed the pain out of focus and deduced that the rig had been planted to serve as a _warning_. A deterrent. It was meant to send him packing and running the other way, but he would not heed the threat.

His goal was ultimate. His focus tunneled. His eye was on the prize, his trophy and victory. Proof of his worth. Acceptance...

 _'I made a promise ta Shredda... He's counting on me. I made a promise, and I ain't gonna fail. I gave him my word.'_ His thoughts held his virtue; his resolve was firm. But all the honor and determination in the world couldn't steal him away from the fact that he was wounded and bleeding; parts of his leathery skin was swollen, mottled red-brown-grey-black with mounting white blisters and a crusted outline of dead flesh.

The burn was a bitch, the way it seemed to nag at him. The searing pain would have been blinding if his focus hadn't been steeled on his desire to succeed. He felt the pain and noted it dully- similar to the way the mind tricks its host into feeling phantom pains. He deluded himself into ignoring the thermogenic throes. To an extent, he managed to detach himself from the abhorring sensation. He blinked long, slow and hard as he breathed deeply until the burn seemed more like a memory and less like an all-encompassing torrent of hellfire.

Once he was coolly detached and able concentrate, his clinical instinct was to field-dress the new wound to avoid infection. He grabbed a tail of his Foot-branded scarf, pulled a knife from his utility strap and used it to cut off a lengthy piece of the fabric. Then, putting the knife back, he thickly wrapped and tied the cloth around this wounded leg; he'd further address the issue when his mission was complete and he made his return to Central.

For now, he sat back, hidden in a small flood of shadows, breathing deeply through his respirator and taking time to properly survey his surroundings. Now that he really focused, he could see the ground littered with upturned or out-of-place debris, each little spot potentially holding a landmine... And Raphael had no intent to trigger another one. That little piece of shrapnel stung like hell, but removing it would only cause him to bleed more; he'd leave it in and have a medic handle it later.

For now, he had to be careful not to alert anyone of his presence- at least, that was the idea. Stealth had nothing to do with the current mission, but he was still a ninja. Instinct and habit worked together to remind him to stick to the shadows and keep out of sight. He was honestly surprised -but not ungrateful- that the small explosion hadn't blown his cover.

_'Alright. Clear the mine field- literally. Then, beyond that fence over there, looks like I can expect some company. Some kinda patrol unit. They're roundin' the perimeter. And I need ta get in there.'_

For a moment, Raphael wished that he was not so alone on the mission. Too many things could go wrong. The humans were likely armed. If Raphael were to get shot...- He shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the thought. He needed to maintain his confidence. As far as he was concerned, he was, and would remain, invincible. Untouchable. Indestructible.

 _'I ain't gonna get shot,'_ he thought stubbornly. _'Bastards are probably packin' tranquilizers at best... Ain't that usually how dis goes?'_

He reaffirmed his confidence. There was no room for worry or doubt. He was responsible and would succeed, come out on top. He had to. It wasn't a matter of trying or risking failure. It was a matter of _doing_ it. If he sat back and over-thought the situation, he'd only be holding himself back. He needed action, not thought.

Impulse would be his ally. Rash decisions, combined with his new sense of hyper-focus, would pull him through; he was counting on it.

He drew in a few steady breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Firstly, he had to focus on clearing the field, getting passed the patrol unit, and breaking into the facility. From there, it was a matter of getting into the lowest level -known as the Vault- where the relic would be stashed and waiting for him.

The slightest hint of self-doubt was faintly registered, but Raphael pressed onward, putting faith in himself to achieve what was expected of him- what he'd promised without question.

In the name of honor. For the reward of acceptance.

Seriousness aside, Raphael found his mind drifting and musing... _'Gotta watch where I step. Like that game we played as kids... The game. The Floor is Lava, it's called. I hated that game, but... the others liked it. The other turtles... We'd climb on the furniture and do a Follow-the-Leader thing while avoiding the floor. Because, accordin' ta the rules of the game, the floor was fuckin' lava. Touch it and die. Similar concept here, except dis shit is real... Just gotta watch where I step.'_

Deft and nimble, agile beneath the guise of night, he moved, from one shadow to the veil of the next, he crept along, toeing between the mines and stepping over hair-triggers that had been planted.

 _'The floor is lava. The floor is lava... -Don't step there! The floor is lava.'_ A quick flip and tumble there and into another safe oasis of darkness. His leg throbbed, but his hiss of pain was barely audible and not his main concern.

He could do this. He would do this. For himself, for the Foot, and for the Shredder.

With substantial efforts, he remained calm, cool, collective. Alert with muted enthusiasm. He couldn't afford to be too reckless as he continued on, stepping between the mines and over hidden triggers and laden sensors.

Before long, Raph was encased in a new puddle of shadows; the mine field had been successfully crossed, and a fence was the only thing between himself and the that damn patrol unit, which seemed to consist of few spanning humans and a single dog- if that _thing_ could be considered a dog. It definitely resembled a canine; it was noticeably larger: the size of a small bear. It had a large muscular upper body, but the lower half was much leaner to the point of being near-skeletal; the way it moved was fast and smooth. Elegant and lethal. The glow of the moon and the dancing beams of flashlights from passing guards highlighted the creature's giant powerful jowls and sharp silver claws...

It was something right out of a horror movie. But Raphael would not allow himself to be held back by fear. He wasn't scared. He was determined. He would display no amount of cowardice behavior tonight.

He just needed to take it one step at a time.

The fence was in his way. It was chain-link and barbed wire, nothing special. It didn't even look electrical, so he didn't think twice about lacing his fingers through the links and climbing up. Getting _over_ the barbed wire with his right leg injured was harder than he anticipated, but he succeeded, propelling himself over the top bar of the fence and landing on the other side in a low, soundless crouch.

The ' _dog-thing_ ' almost immediately seemed to detect Raphael's presence.

The canine stood in place, tail pointed, nose sniffing, and hackles raised. Its lips drew back to reveal rows of shark-like teeth as it slowly approached, curious and wary and growling lowly.

Without a second through, Raphael returned the growl, baiting the animal.

The canine-creature drew in closer, teeth bared as it reared back, jowls open as it prepared to either bite... or bark and alert the nearby humans.

For a moment, the turtle remained crouched and frozen. Up close, the animal appeared much larger; if it were to stand on its hind legs, it was easily taller than an average human. Up close, Raphael could make out the outline of the animal's musculature through its short coarse fur that was smooth in some areas and rough and matted in others.

The dog-thing snarled and drew in a breath. With the way its head and throat was angled, the gleam in its eye, and the way its body language articulated, it was obvious that the animal was about to bark...

But Raphael would have none of that. Nearly panicked for a moment, Raphael lunged at the dog, pitting his own weight against that of the creature. The dog had snapped its teeth at him, but he countered by lodging his forearm into its mouth; the protective leather wraps along his arm lessened the pending damage, and for as long as he could hold his arm there, the canine wouldn't be able to take a bite out of his throat.

Up close- too close for comfort, Raphael could smell the animal's breath, tart and acrid and earthy, and... it smelled like death, which put the turtle on high-alert.

Still, the creature was determined, primitively instinctual and vicious; it would not be subdued so easily. It launched itself against the bipedal turtle and tackled Raphael to the ground. The animal was large and strong... and its teeth were cutting through the leather wraps around Raphael's arm; he could feel the sharp points beginning to dig into his flesh and scrape...

For a moment, Raphael felt trapped; that tinge of panic ripped through him and offered a spike of adrenaline, and he fisted a handful of thick fur in his free hand before bending his knees towards his chest and planting his feet against the creature's abdomen; then in one swift fluent motion, he rolled back on his carapace, yanked his arm free from the cage of teeth, and kicked the canine off and sent it flying back over his head. Once free, Raphael got to his feet, shook the blood from his newly wounded arm, and reached for his sais... but he made a conscious decision _not_ to draw them.

_'C'mon, pooch. Come at me. Just... keep the noise level to a minimum. I don't wanna hurt ya. It ain't yer fault ta be in dis position. I won't fault ya. Now, be a good boy...'_

Much to Raphael's expectations and dismay, the canine was obviously not a telepath; it lunged at the turtle, angry jaws snapping and claws outstretched in jest of threat as it pounced.

Raphael dodged and slammed one fist into the side of the dog's head, but that only pissed it off further.

The dog rounded on him, ready to bite and mangle.

Raph quickly stepped back and made a grab for the animal's face; he managed to get one hand on top and one hand beneath the canine's furred muzzle, holding firmly to prevent further biting. This, however, proved ineffective as the dog whipped its head to the side and freed itself before attempting once again to bite. This time, as Raphael reared his fist back, he stepped forth as his fist moved to connect with the animal, adding torque to the uppercut he delivered to the animal's lower jaw.

The creature flew back and let out a yipping sound in response to the blow. The noise was soft, but against the deafening silence of the night, it sounded so much louder, amplified.

 _'Shut up, shut up, shut up,'_ Raphael's mind chanted frantically, as if thinking hard enough would telepathically communicate with the dog and will it so. _'You alert the humans, and I'll have no choice but ta-'_ He didn't finish the thought. Instead, he acted. Without fully processing what he was doing, Raphael found himself on top of the large canine, his own arms wrapped tightly around its neck from behind; his hands pressed around its windpipe... choking off the animal's whimpers and leaving it releasing snarled half-gasps instead.

Raphael needed the mutt to be quiet.

The dog thrashed in panic, but the turtle didn't let go.

Refusing, and possibly unable to let go, he squeezed tighter as the dog thrashed harder and bucked wildly before stilling in submission, silent pleading. There was a sudden moment of horrific clarity when Raphael realized just what he was doing... He could feel his own eyes widen and his breath catch between his lungs and throat... but then... nothing.

For a moment, Raphael thought his own heart had stopped; he couldn't feel it. As he pinned the large animal to the ground, it took him entirely too long to realize that it had gone limp beneath him.

It stopped struggling, stopped breathing.

Raphael slowly got off the canine and moved to crouch in front of it. He stared down into its large, unfocused and unblinking eyes as the spark of life began to fade into something glassy.

 _'No... Yer okay, pooch,'_ he thought, but he couldn't dredge up any sort of assurance. He placed an unsteady hand on top of the dog's head and cautiously stroked the soft fur there. _'Yer okay. I just wanted ya ta shut up. I didn't mean...- No. Yer okay.'_ He petted the animal a little more firmly and thumbed at its ears. They were so soft...

His chest felt insanely tight. He could feel his heart now, and it was beating entirely too hard, as if it was trying to beat its way out of his plastron.

For a moment, he wanted to scream. At himself or at the world, he didn't know. Maybe he wanted to yell at the dog-thing to get back up. Maybe he just wanted to shout wordlessly into the night until he had nothing left to shout about.

But he didn't scream. He didn't yell. He didn't even speak another word. Instead, his usually sharp eyes turned soft and he cradled the animal's head in his hands.

 _'Betcha had a name like Max or Rover, or somethin'...'_ He lightly petted the animal again. _'Then again, I dunno what kinda dog ya are. Probably not someone's pet. Yer probably on yer own. Out here patrolling among the humans. Never given respect fer what ya do. Never treated as anythin' special..._ _No wonder yer so aggressive, so pissed. Ya had every right ta be._ _'_ A prickling sensation behind his eyes warned of spilling emotions, but he set his jaw tight, clenched his teeth, and focused on the physical pain in his own body. He would not cry. He was not weak. And he wouldn't act like a damn pussy over a dog that got in his way.

Still, the wave of guilt that washed over him was nearly unbearable. It hurt, twisted him up inside; made his chest feel tight and his head throb with stress. But it didn't last long.

Despite everything, he managed a crooked smile.

 _'At least ya died fighting. Ya didn't die alone either. If I had ta go, I'd wanna go out like that. I just... wish I'd given ya more of a chance, a better fight. A more honorable death... But I hadn't meant ta hurt ya. Didn't mean ta take ya out like that. It was a cheap shot. Nothin' like I should've done. But ya gotta understand, I was just tryin' ta...- I thought...-'_ His thoughts sputtered off into fragments. He couldn't tell if it was stress or physical pain or something else, but he was starting to feel heavy, as if his arms and legs bore lead weights.

He distantly noted fatigue setting in as he blinked slow and hard, trying to keep focused. Trying... and failing.

_'Shit...'_

Rolling his head to look at his arm, he caught sight of a feather-tipped dart with its point embedded. Easing his hands away from the animal, he reached for the dart and plucked it from his arm; he stared at it for a long moment before releasing a soft, bitter chuckle that came out distorted through his respirator. _'Wonder where dis came from? And here I am, feelin' sorry for pullin' a cheap shot. Heh.'_ Tossing the dart to the ground, he turned to see a human standing nearby, armed and smirking.

Raphael's vision blurred in and out of focus, but he remained on his own two feet and facing the human. "Ya... caught me at a bad time," he told the human.

"The freak talks..." The human said, sounding both curious and surprised.

Raph flexed his fingers, as if assuring himself that his motor skills were still functioning. Seemingly satisfied with his own assessment, he drew a sai into each hand. His grip didn't feel as sure as it usually did, but he wasn't about to back down. "Y'know..." he said, voice not holding the malice he tried to put into it. "I don't... like bein' called a _freak_. In fact, it... pisses me off." He slid his feet apart and slipped into a favored fighting stance. He gave his tri-bladed weapons an experimental spin and fought back a wince when one almost slipped from his grip. He tightened his hold on them, knuckles paling.

"I don't know how you're still standing, freak, but you won't be for long." With that, the human pulled a radio from his belt.

Raph's vision continued to fade in and out, and his hearing seemed to follow suit.

As the man brought the radio to his mouth, the mutant only caught half of what he said.

"Alert... Freak... Appears to be injured... Call in backup."

If the human was going to say anything more, Raphael would never know; he didn't give him the chance. His sais slipped from his hands and fell unceremoniously to the ground. Thinking quick- or perhaps not thinking at all- he drew two sharp kunai from his utility strap and skillfully launched the projectiles at the human.

Both hit.

The first caught the man in the thigh and he dropped his gun and radio in favor of attending the wound, but his hands never made contact with the injury. Because, in that same instance, the second kunai came his way; this one stabbed the human through the throat and pierced his jugular.

From his vantage point, Raphael could see the bladed projectile connect and penetrate.

Sudden desperation clouded the human's mind. Panic set in. His only thought was to remove the thing that became lodged in his throat. He unthinkingly- _stupidly_ \- brought a hand to his throat and ripped the blade out.

Raphael witnessed the removal of the kunai as well as the the gush of blood that became a waterfall.

The man's eyes had gone wide; his jaw flapped soundlessly. Seconds ticked away and the human fell. It was a slow and reluctant descent. He hit his knees. A few seconds later, his fall continued; his face hit the ground last.

Raphael's own focus was still drawing in and out, but he didn't feel ready to collapse like he half-expected; whatever sedative he'd been hit with must have been mild. Fast-acting but weak, intended for a normal human rather than his mutant self. It wouldn't last long.

Not for the first time, the turtle counted it as a blessing, that he was not human.

Speaking of humans, more would be on the way, but Raph directed his attention to the large canine-creature's corpse.

 _'Hey there, pooch.'_ He approached it with stumbling footsteps. Then, dropping down to a squat that was only slightly hindered by the pull of burnt skin on his leg, he grabbed for the animal and proceeded to drag its body backwards until it rested safely out of sight. _'I promise... if it's the last thing I do tonight, I'll give ya a proper burial. Ya... deserve... better than what the humans would offer.'_

Raphael released his hold on the corpse and forced himself to stand at full height; he stepped out of the darkness and into the light of the moon just as a dozen humans came into view. He glanced towards where he'd dropped his sais and briefly wondered if he could get to them in time. His vision blurred again, shapes turning into muted shadows, and he gave up on the idea of fetching the weapons.

As the humans moved in, coming closer, they fanned out in an attempt to encircle the mutant.

Raphael distantly noted that while the humans appeared armed, he didn't see a single gun. That fact alone gave him the incentive to keep going. Proper vision or not, even while clumsy and weighed down with drug-induced fatigue, he wasn't capable of giving up.

Defeat wasn't something he could simply accept. Not without a fight. Not with his honor at stake.

He drew a shuriken and launched it at a blurry figure he knew to be human. He couldn't be certain of his accuracy, but he wouldn't let that stop him. He lurched forward, almost losing his footing but remaining upright and continuing forward. He lessened the gap between himself and the humans and reflexively knocked away a set of tonfas that came towards him. A weighted chain whipped towards him next, and he caught it around his uninjured forearm; then, with all the strength he had, he yanked, pulling the person on the other end towards him and catching the human with a fist to the face. The man went down without a fight, and Raphael unraveled the chain from his arm before pulling it between his hands. He instantly recognized the weapon as a manriki.

Checking his stance and blinking hard, he watched the other humans close in.

They brandished weapons, similar in their assent.

 _'Bastards don't even realize it,'_ Raphael thought hollowly, _'but they just leveled the damn playin' field. I ain't got much ta compete with guns... but a few ninja weapons? Yeah, I got dis...'_

Raphael spun the weighted end of the manriki chain before tossing it towards a pending threat; the chain caught around a human's legs, and Raph couldn't help grinning at the turn of events. After all, he hadn't expected it to be easy. But a fight was something he could manage. And if not, at least he'd go down the way he always wanted.

An attack from behind sent the turtle off balance and falling plastron-first to the ground. A dizzying wave of nausea rolled over him, but he ignored the sensation and scrambled to his feet. As he got up, something felt off. He looked down at his hands to find them empty. No manriki chain. Nothing. He'd lost his hold on it when he'd taken the fall. Wherever the weapon was now, it wasn't in his immediate sight.

A kick to the shell sent him down again, but he rolled onto his carapace and managed a flip to regain his footing. He swayed a little, disoriented, but as far as he could tell, the tranquilizer he'd been shot with, while it was still effecting his performance, was beginning to wear off. His vision was still blurry; his focus was shoddy at best; but he was able to move without feeling the lethargic restrictions that had plagued him moments prior. The odds were still against him, but he'd bet his shell that he could take on these stupid humans, drugged or not.

He dodged a blow here and an attack there. He delivered a successful low, middle, and high reverse roundhouse kick in rapid succession to his surrounding foes. And while he couldn't properly _see_ them, he didn't need to see- not when he could _hear_ the bodies drop.

He kept fighting them. They kept getting back up.

Minutes passed as the fight drew on. Raphael's body was taking its share of hits, but hardly any of it registered. For as long as he was able to fight, he would.

In time, his vision grew less bleary. Sharper. More focused. The fatigue and nausea were still a plague to him, but he could manage.

He had a decision to make. The fight would draw to a close soon enough, and if he were to be the victor, he needed to incapacitate his foes. Somehow.

The solution came to him when he delivered a punch to another human's nose and he felt the cartilage give beneath the force of the hit. Before the human could do anything, Raphael grabbed him by the face- his green three-fingered hands wrapping around that small fleshy expansion, palm pressing against what had been a nose...- and he slammed the human's head into a nearby crate, hard. Hard enough for blood to spill. Hard enough for him to stay down, permanently.

"I ain't playin' around no more. Let's fuckin' end this," the turtle grumbled once full coherency found him. He was more than ready to deal back the fate those wretched people had intended for him. Spying his sais laying on the ground, he walked over and snatched them up. He gave them a spin and almost laughed when he was able to handle them expertly. He glared at the humans who backed away, their weapons poised but fear hindering their actions. "What?" Raphael spat at them. "Ya afraid of a little turtle? Figures. It's all fine when yer the ones on the offensive, but I retaliate a little and ya get scared. Typical human scum. Always want the cards ta be dealt in yer favor... Well, tough! 'Cause, right now, I'm yer dealer, and there ain't no countin' cards in dis game. Ya done pissed me off, so deal with it!"

He slammed his elbow into the gut of one man before rounding on a few others. A headbutt here, a split-kick and a few stabs of the sai there, and the humans were no longer attacking or retreating. They were simply laying on the ground with a telltale redness pooling around and beneath them.

Raphael stared at them all with disgust. "Can't even play fair. Shot me with a tranquilizer... and ya still can't beat me!" Breathing heavily, he kicked a bleeding man in the side for good measure before stepping over another body and simply walking off. He was tired, angry, and he was downright sick of humans. As far as he was concerned, _they_ were the real freaks. Slipping his bloodied sais into their respective slots, he reached back behind his head and unhinged the respirator. He tore it off and threw it carelessly to the ground as he gulped in several heaps of tainted New York air.

The air burned his lungs, but it felt too good for him to complain.

He approached the facility at long last. Looking it over, it appeared to be a church, but Raphael knew better. That appearance was strictly for camouflage purposes, and he wouldn't be fooled by something so stupid- not when the outside had been so judiciously guarded.

Stealth wasn't mentioned in his mission's criteria, and he was damn tired of hiding. Ninja-be-damned. So, he opted to take the full-frontal approach. Something Leonardo wouldn't do if his life depended on it. But fuck that self-righteous reptile. Raphael didn't operate under his leadership anymore, so it didn't matter.

All that mattered was this mission. Returning with the Golden Shuriken.

Approaching a large and admittedly beautiful stained glass window, Raphael punched a hand through it; the bulk of it shattered and he jumped through the newly made entrance. He landed among countless shards of glass, but the pieces were large and their sharp edges didn't touch his callous feet. He drew out the last of his own projectiles- two kunai and a final shuriken- and proceeded to march down a well-lit hallway. Through a breezeway and around a corner...

He caught sight of a lone woman in an over-sized officer's jacket, sporting a pair of glasses that made her face look too small and mousy. Raphael prepared for her to scream or attack, or something, but she didn't react in any way he could have imagined; instead, she just stood there with an unassuming expression and held out her hand to offer him some kind of laminated card; then she pointed down another hall.

_'Must be someone Shredda bribed. He said there wouldn't be much of a problem once I got in, but I ain't expectin' dis ta be a cakewalk.'_

He accepted the card, looked it over and found it to be some kind of access pass; he clipped it to his right utility strap before continuing on his way.

Two halls later, and Raphael found an elevator. Just as he approached, it dinged open to reveal four very startled humans. Without any thought or hesitation, the mutant launched the last of his projectiles at them, and each hit their targets in either the head or throat. Raph then stepped inside the elevator and stood next to the last human standing: a fearful young man who trembled in place as he regarded the mutant turtle.

The young man looked like he wanted to run but the elevator doors closed before he could. He stuttered something unintelligible and wordless before pressing himself into a corner and trying to blend into the wall- which was an impossibility; his navy-colored clothes contrasted against the pastel walls of the elevator.

Raph showed no concern for the human. After the night he had, the blood he spilled, the emotions caught between traumatic and placid, he couldn't be bothered to worry over a few more dropped bodies.

His mission... he was so close to finishing it.

He hit the button that would take him to the lowest level, and then he simply stood there, waiting in awkward silence. "Nice weather we're havin'," he tried to lessen the awkward tension and failed. If anything, the air grew thicker. He sighed before trying again. "Don't get in the way, and you'll be fine," he told the young man. "I ain't a bad guy." Even as he spoke the words, he glanced down at the red-stained corpses, and he suddenly wasn't so sure of himself.

 _'I'm not the bad guy. Just... keepin' my promise. It would be no different if Master Splin- the rat... It would be no different if the rat had asked me ta take out some threat ta the family.'_ His head throbbed, stress gifting him a nasty migraine that started in the middle of his skull and worked its pressure behind his eyes. _'Shredda took me in. Unlike the rat... he gives a shit. He knows that I'm capable of doin' stuff. He trusts me; he listens ta me. That's why I'm here. That's why I gotta do this. Fer my new master. To prove myself...'_ He glanced down and frowned at the warm crimson liquid that had spread and managed to reach his feet; he curled his toes against the warm wetness and suddenly felt sick.

Seeing a corpse, that was one thing. Spilling blood, it wasn't hard. But to actually touch the blood of a victim...

 _'Victim...'_ A fresh wave of guilt ripped at his insides and knocked his heart into his throat. _'Those people were victims... My victims. I did dis ta them. Fer no good reason.'_

His face scrunched up in sheer agony. Then, a timid voice reached his ear slits.

"Hey, are you... alright? You don't look too good." That weak and timorous human in the corner, he was asking about the mutant's well-being.

Raphael snorted in response and consciously avoided eye contact. He cleared his throat before daring to speak. "Just keep outta my way. I ain't got no business with ya."

The conversation, if it could be called that, ended there.

The elevator reached the bottom level and the doors slid open. Raph overstepped the bodies upon exiting, leaving behind three cadavers and a wary human.

 _'Those people... They were in the way,'_ he thought to himself. _'I did what I had ta do. If I hadn't... they might have- They could have...- No. It was either them, or me. I chose me. I did nothin' wrong...'_

He wasn't stupid. He was perfectly aware that he was trying to convince and delude himself, but somehow... the thought made him feel a little better.

_'They were in the way. Obstacles, and I removed 'em. That's all.'_

The new line of thinking placated him, calmed the storm of stress that had made itself known.

Raph looked over his new surroundings. Previously, everything had been pristine and immaculate and brightly lit, but this new chamber was dim, lit by flaming torches that lined the stony walls at uneven intervals. It looked very much like he imagined a dungeon would.

_'The Vault...'_

He followed the flickering lights deeper and deeper into the unfamiliar territory. He stopped when a faint glow caught his eye- a glow that was not warranted by the flickering of fire.

Curious and expectant, he approached. And, there, sitting upon an altar of sorts, caught beneath a thick glass casing, was a star-shaped item, colored gold and giving off a radiant glow.

Raphael grabbed for the access pass and swiped it under an adjourning scanner. In an instant, the glass casing split in two and slid away, revealing the prize.

The Golden Shuriken.

If this was it, Raphael was immensely disappointed.

It was too easy, to simply take it and walk out.

He suddenly felt cheated. Still, he collected the item, left the access pass in its place, and turned back.

His feet scuffed along the stone flooring with every step. His shoulders slumped.

There was no great joy, no triumph at his victory for obtaining the item.

There was simply the the thought of: _'Well, that's done. What next?'_ And part of him really didn't care. He may have succeeded, but as he approached the elevator and ascended once more, he felt more defeated than ever.

His toes were still speckled with human blood. His left arm and right leg were in need of medical attention. He felt rundown. Exiting the elevator once he'd reached the main floor, he trudged the halls and made his way back to the broken glass window he'd come through earlier. With a heavy sigh, he slipped the pendant around his neck for convenience and leapt through the opening.

Once outside in the night air, he recalled his promise to the strange canine. With a sense of duty and little more, he decided that he had one last thing to do before returning to Central.

_''I'm comin', pooch. Just like I said I would.'_

And Raphael kept his promise. It was the one thing he always had and always would do...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, I wanted to put this in the beginning A/N, but I didn't want to add a spoiler. The canine that Raphael buried was supposed to be a less-than-sentient Rahzar.


	28. Ch 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: This chapter takes place days after Raphael had delivered the Golden Shuriken to the Shredder. After the stressful events in the previous chapter, I decided Raph could use a light-hearted moment, and you'll find it here. After that, Leo has a bit of a breakthrough!

**CH 27**

* * *

It was funny, almost, the way the world kept turning, the days kept fading into nights, and really... everything kept changing all the time, and yet those constant changes were expected and stagnant. There was never any surprise when a little rain decided to pour, nor when the leaves fell from the trees. There was no surprise when people traded tears for laughter, or smiles for glares.

How things could change, but the change- expected or not- could be simply overlooked as something ordinary, it was special. Special, and unnoticed.

_'An ordinary change. Somethin' different that is accepted, expected, almost necessary. A cycle that I don't belong in...'_

Raphael focused on something along those lines as he held the 'American Government' notebook and scribbled a few lines of truth-turned-fiction in an attempt to vent his stray emotions.

It had been days since he'd obtained the relic and offered it to the Shredder. During that time, he'd been stripped of everything except his heated belt and tended by the medic. Shredder, armored and intimidating, had offered verbal praise and a familiar hand to the turtle's shoulder, but Raph found no satisfaction in it.

Since then, Raphael had been moody, more so than usual. His verbal lashings came with little prompt and he was prone to storming off to either his old room, the infirmary, or even the Barracks- which, after his case of comatose brumation, had been insulated and heated.

Shredder had what he wanted- that relic of mystic forgery- and Raphael's newfound sense of petulance and rebellion posed little threat; thus the tyrant of a human was able to look the other way in regards to ill-placed words and flight tendencies.

And Raph, of course, pushing his feelings inward in favor of coping with the stress of his actions, had taken up the pen once more. His writings were scattered and frequent. But unlike before, while he would write on the bulk of his thoughts, he didn't write anything of the dreams he had- well, the _one_ dream he seemed to have.

It was that same dream, recurring, the one where he was trapped, encased in the white dome with his name scripted on the wall. But lately, in that dream, the dome had been redecorated, grafted with a spiderweb of cracks, as if it was trying to break. In his dream, Raph had tried to break through, but his efforts were fruitless. Still... if he was quiet, still, and if he concentrated, sometimes... he could hear a voice. Familiar, soothing, calling to him, saying things that drew flashes of memory closer to the surface...

The dream was confusing, but he didn't question it. And he refused to write it down. It _felt_ important to him. And it was something he refused to share. At the risk of someone reading his notebook, he wouldn't write it. He wouldn't give them the chance to see that part of his mind.

In a way, that dream was becoming his own personal secret.

And... just this morning, right before he drew into full consciousness, the crack in that white paper prison grew just a bit more, to the point where he could see through to the other side... He couldn't make out any real features, but the sky... vibrant red, with swirls of blue and purple- living colors, swimming...

He woke up that morning, thinking that maybe sleep wasn't so bad after all. Those colors, that voice he could almost hear... it placated his inner demons and left him feeling lighter.

Even so, his waking hours left him with much to think about.

With his current injuries- not that they were debilitating- his training was virtually nonexistent, and he found himself with entirely too much free time. Free time meant thinking. Thinking brought his mind to a dark place. That dark place in his mind made him angry and bitter. That bitterness revealed itself in impromptu tongue-lashings, foul words, and soured expressions.

What set him off, it was questionable. But something about the aggressive behavior felt right. It felt natural. Easier than breathing. The only thing difficult with it, in Raphael's opinion, was directing his anger where it was truly warranted.

 _That_ was something he'd never been able to do. Something he had always struggled with. Something that had once caused him great strife. But now...

Once again, Raphael was writing...

_I once knew the value of man. The degree of honor. And the ration of innocence and understandin'._   
_Since that night- the night of the Golden Shuriken- the worth of humans has declined. Honor has become something measured by mercy I can't show. And innocence, I guess it's aways been something that adults view in children and children discard as soon as possible._   
_Forget staining honor. My whole life is stained. Stained by my hands, my actions, and my faults. Stained by my anger._   
_But... even the worst failures have a silver lining._   
_All my life, I've been known by a single name- named after a famous Renaissance artist, but lately... the proud name Raphael has been reduced to: Raffle._   
_And so, a new nightmare begins. But... it's the kind of nightmare that I'm afraid ta wake up from. It's the kind of nightmare that just might be better than the alternative._   
_Maybe it ain't such a nightmare after all._

Raph sat on an old sofa in the newly furnished Barracks; he was there by choice rather than command. He tossed the pen and notebook aside as a familiar human approached.

Gunner made himself known well before he was visible, his cast clunking noisily with every step. He didn't need crutches in this stage of recovery; he was nearly ready to have the cast removed. In his hands, several boxes of pizza were stacked and wobbling dangerously. "I got the pizza, Raphael. But you have to pick the anime. Naruto or Dragonball Z?"

The turtle rolled his eyes. "You always wanna watch anime. Can't we watch a sitcom? Or a horror flick? Something with normal people?" Raphael's voice held a tone of tired exasperation. "I haven't seen the new Batman... What about-?"

Gunner grinned and dropped the pizza boxes onto an overturned crate that served as a makeshift table. "Nope! Think of the kids! They wanna watch violent cartoons. So, you can either choose an anime, or... we'll go old school and bust out the Looney Tunes and Animaniacs!"

Raph's cheek fell into his palm, his expression displaying his own plight of boredom. "Remind me again why there's a fuck-"

"Ah, shhh! Language! Watch your mouth," Gunner chided, snickering afterwards.

Raph rolled his eyes. "Why's there a fuh-friggin' daycare-thing goin' on here? And why am _I_ the one dealin' with it? I mean, why send a turtle ta do a human's job? I ain't the nurturing type."

Gunner shrugged. "You, Raphael, are injured." The teen pointed an accusing finger at the turtle. "You might not be injured too severely, but Master Shredder wants to be certain you heal up good before sending you out for anything. And... in case you forgot, I'm also laid up, and I'm working Inventory. Since that boring job is covered... you get what's left. You get to be the _nanny_!"

"But why _kids_?!" Raph threw his arms out in frustration. He'd been more prone to outbursts over the last few days; he'd taken notice but hadn't bothered to make amends.

Still, Gunner flipped open a box of pizza and stole a slice before answering. "It's not a daycare center or anything. The kids are runaways. We can't turn them over to the authorities, just so they can be sent back to potentially abusive homes. And, it's better for them to come here than go out on the streets. Plus, they're potential recruits, once they're old enough."

Raph sighed but didn't comment further. Instead, he just tried to get comfortable on the lumpy sofa; his shell was proving itself to be a hindrance in the matter.

Speaking of kids... A single child ran over to Raphael. His clothes were ratty and covered in dirt, as was various patches of his otherwise pale skin. He held up his hands and flashed a bright smile; he was clearly proud of something. And he voiced his pride with an insistent cry of: "Look, Raffle! Lookie!"

The mutant held back a smile at the child's antics, but the corners of his mouth still twitched with the threat of emotion. "Wha'd ya do?" he asked the kid, seeing that both of the child's hands were coated thickly in silver duct tape.

The kid continued to display his hands. His pinky and ring finger had been taped together, as had his index and middle; the thumb stood alone. It was the same on both hands. "I've got three fingers, just like you, Raffle!"

Raphael shook his head and looked away. "Kid, ya don't want three fingers."

The kid pouted. "I do too! And I wanna be green. And I want one of those-" he climbed on the couch and sat next to the turtle before rapping his small fist against the mutant's carapace, as if knocking. "You are the coolest, most awesome big brother in the world."

Raphael had been mildly amused, but the child's last words made him frown; his chest tightened marginally. " _Brother_?" He couldn't help the strained sound of his usually gruff voice.

"Yeah. That's what you are to us, right, Raffle? You go out and keep us safe, and you spend time with us here when you can. You're the greatest, Raffle!" The kid leaned in close, his smile only growing wider.

Raph sighed and averted his gaze.

Gunner playfully punched Raphael's uninjured arm. "Let the kid have his fun, _Raffle_ ," he teased, grinning widely before accepting a smack to the back of the head, courtesy of an emerald-skinned mutant.

"Ya ain't got no speech impediment, so don't act like it. It's disrespectful ta those who do," Raph said simply, eyes narrow but no real malice present.

Gunner's grin fell into a smile, but that smile quirked into a smirk. "Well, if the kids spend enough time around you, they'll all have a speech impediment and excessively use double and triple negatives!" With that, the teen ducked another oncoming smack; he set his pizza aside and moved to his collection of DVD's and boxsets. "So, did you decide which anime-"

"Put in a movie. With normal people," Raph said.

The child jumped up excitedly, unwittingly clipping the mutant in the chin with a thin and bony shoulder. "We should watch FIGHT CLUB! Wanna see it again! Raffle watched it with me yestah-day."

Gunner turned and fixed a slack-jawed gawk towards the turtle. "'The kid is, like, six. He can't be watching that, Raphael."

Raph had his eyes closed and was breathing deeply in an attempt to stave off the irritation of the accidental assault. Still, he managed a shrug before responding. "He spends his days with fuckin' ninja, and ya think he can't tolerate a few fights, explosions, and a piss poor sex scene?"

The human teen huffed and reluctantly found the aforementioned DVD before putting it in; all the while, he grumbled unintelligibly. By the time he'd set it up, adjusted the volume, and hit _Play_ , he turned back to see that, where Raphael sat, there was not one- but _several_ kids piled around him, all being mindful of the bandaged arm and leg. Gunner bit his lip in amusement at the sight but said nothing as he reclaimed his pizza and took his seat among the group.

... by the end of the movie, most of the pizza had been eaten, all the kids were asleep, and Raphael himself was beginning to nod off.

Gunner ejected and put away the DVD before turning the volume low and switching the TV to cable so that when the kids woke up they'd have something colorful to occupy themselves.

It had been a peaceful few days at Central, with very little to do but bond with one another. Unfortunately, the peace wouldn't last long. It couldn't. Not based on what the cast-legged rookie Foot ninja had overheard. Something about a hockey-masked vigilante busting up a few associates Shredder had been working with...

...

* * *

_[Leo]_

Leonardo sat alone on the roof of April's apartment building. He should have been either home or aiding Don and Casey in the search for his missing brother, but he was wearing down; his hope was dwindling. Giving into a moment of weakness, he'd run off without even telling his sensei. He was just so tired of waiting, of hoping, of trying to find his brother.

He was starting to feel helpless, trapped, suffocated in the confines of the lair. He had to wonder: _'Is this it? Is this the feeling that had always lured Raph topside? The need to just... go anywhere. This restless anxiety...'_

In his brother's absence, Leo had done his best to soothe his family, to keep his spirits high. He'd preached and droned on about keeping faith. About finding their rogue sibling and bringing him home. He'd spoken those words so much that they now came without thought. It was to the point where, Leo couldn't be sure if he was reciting the promise habitually or if he was genuinely trying to keep everyone hopeful. Some days, he didn't know what to believe.

For all he knew, Raphael didn't even want to come home.

The thought was despairing.

Still, even after running off, the blue-banded ninja found himself unable to completely shirk his duties. As a leader and a brother.

He was the eldest brother. He was the leader. He was responsible. And until he could bring Raphael home, neither his family nor his team would be whole.

On that roof, Leonardo found himself in the lotus position, drifting deeper into a meditative trance. He'd hoped the rebellious act of running out along with the reprieve offered by the crisp night air might somehow bring him closer to his brother in essence and spirit.

After the abundance of practice he'd had as of late, he almost effortlessly found himself in the Astral Realm, caught between the planes of Existence.

He felt that weightless sense of calm wash over him as he took in the fantastic atmosphere of color. For a moment, he allowed himself to be awed by the display before steeling himself on task.

Spying the large paper shell that he'd become all too familiar with, his spiritual self approached, but... something was different. Several cracks ran along the once-pristine paper-steel surface and, through those cracks, a brilliant golden light shone, giving off an incredible energy.

"Raph?" Leo cautioned the name as he drew closer. "Can you hear me? Raph!" He raced the rest of the way to the dome. He inspected the cracks with his eyes and hands. "Raph... You're still in there, right? Trapped... But the walls are cracked. There has to be a way to free your spirit... and bring you home." He tested the durability of the dome now that it was fractured, but it still seemed impossible to break. With a sigh, he slumped down and sat next to it. He placed a hand against the cool paper surface. "We miss you, Raph." He said, voice soft, soothing, almost whispering. "We need you. Whoever you are, and whoever you need to be, we'll accept you. Anything you've done, we'll forgive it. That's what family does. It-It's not even about the team anymore. It's about you, and it's about us... But it's mostly about you."

He couldn't be sure if his words would breech the paper barrier, cracked or not. But it eased his own tension, to speak to his brother. To say the words he'd been holding in for so long.

"Raph, you're needed back home. You're missed. No one can get along without you. _I_ can't get along without you." His own confession brought into light, he closed his eyes tightly, as if pained; then he continued to speak. "We all pushed you away, didn't we? And I don't blame you for running. But... I do blame you for staying away. It's hurting us, Raph. And that's the last thing you'd ever want. I know you. You're my brother. And though you act tough, inside, you're raw. Like an open wound. And... maybe I didn't tend to you the right way. Maybe you got infected. And maybe that's why you won't come home. But... for what it's worth, I am sorry. And I'd do anything to make things right."

As Leo's words concluded, he heard a distinctive 'tearing' sound, as if someone had ripped a sheet of paper in half. He immediately looked to the source of the sound, only to see a larger tear among the cracks in the dome.

For the first time in a while, Leo felt an honest swell of hope.

"We'll bring you home, Raph. That's a promise. No matter how long it takes. No matter what we go through. No turtle gets left behind."


	29. Ch 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: A couple Raph moments. A brief thing with Shredder to hint at things to come. And lastly, a Leo moment that I'm particularly happy with.

**CH 28**

* * *

Raphael was relieved from his temporary duties as a nanny, but the name ' _Raffle_ ' still clung to him, specifically when he was able to get back to training. At the bench, lifting weights, straining his muscles and feeling them stretch and pull as he exerted himself with every rep- it was pure ecstasy for the restless turtle. He breathed in when he drew the bar close, and he gave a controlled exhale when he lifted. He did his reps in sets of ten, paused a few seconds and went again.

He'd been at this for a while; he'd be sore later, but it was worth it.

That dull ache of ripped and repairing muscle, he lived for it. The feeling of pushing himself towards self-improvement. He needed it. The productivity.

His prior injuries- however minor- had pulled him away from the weight room at Shredder's orders, and he considered the lack of activity to be its own form of hell.

But now that he was cleared...

 _'Breathe in, and out... Six... Seven... Eight... Nine... Ten... And break.'_ He set the bar back in its perch and sat up, breathing deeply, a sheen of sweat coating his body. He grabbed a nearby towel and wiped his face off before realizing that he had a bit of an... audience.

A familiar child stood a few feet away from him, fingers taped and large smile in place. "Raffle!"

Raph chuckled lightly, and tossed the towel away. "Shouldn't ya be with the other kids?"

The little boy rolled his eyes but held his smile. "They're all with the tutor. I had trouble reading the bigger words, and I got bored. So, I came to find you. You don't gotta learn any school stuff."

Raph looked the kid directly in the eye before deadpanning: "Kid, I did my school stuff. Read from books, took tests, the works. If ya don't learn, ya can't be a ninja." He extended a thick green finger and poked the kid in the chest. "Bein' a ninja starts here..." Then he moved the same hand up to pat the boy on the head. "But it takes a lot of this too." Pulling his hand away, he took on a thoughtful look. "It's all about balance. Learnin' right and wrong, and knowin' the most effective way ta succeed. More than anythin', it's about protectin' those ya care for." He paused to let his words sink in before moving his hands to lightly grip the child's arms, pretending to feel up the nonexistent muscles. "And a little muscle never hurt..." He flashed a wide grin. "You been workin' out, kid? At this rate, you'll be able ta kick my sorry shell in no time." His tone was surprisingly light, teasing, but he fixed his expression into something more serious. "But, really, ya gotta be smart. More than strong, ya have ta be fast, quick-thinkin', and brave."

As Raphael spoke of the traits, his mind procured corresponding colors and names.

_Fast. Orange. Michelangelo._   
_Quick-thinkin'. Purple. Donatello._   
_Brave. Blue. Leonardo._

A wave of nausea swept through him as his kin came to mind. He'd been doing so well, ignoring them. But lately... Ever since he'd dreampt of the paper dome cracking, ever since he began to imagine that voice calling to him, thoughts of the other turtles had become more frequent and less spiteful. His heart beat slow and steady like a drum, and his head pulsed as if he was desperately fighting to retrieve a lost memory.

In his mind, he'd given up on them. In his mind, he fought to ignore their existence. Out of sight, out of mind. He could no longer imagine himself at their side, fighting for what was right, not when he'd sold his honor for a cheap compliment. For feigned acceptance.

The reality of it all hurt, but he couldn't undo his actions. He wouldn't regret his decisions. Instead, he would strive to do better. To maintain some semblance of who he was at his core.

More than muscle. More than nerve. Not quite the heart or brain or leader. He was a rebel. He was a martyr. So... where was that part of him? The part of him that refused to conform? The part that defied everything? The part of him that fought against all odds and either came out on top or went down swinging?

He closed his eyes tightly, mind reeling.

And, all of a sudden, all at once, the world fell away and the ache subsided. In his mind, he saw colors. Vibrant. In his mind, the sky was painted with an eternal sunset, and snakes of blue and purple swam. In his mind, through a crack in the shell of paper, he saw more and more of that sky coming into view as the paper seemed to peel away just a bit more.

And in his mind, through that hole, he saw- _or did he imagine?_ \- a forest green hand with three fingers, reaching towards him.

The name to go with that skin color was on the tip of his tongue, and he found himself reaching towards that hand. His breath hitched. He was so close to making contact. Against all logic, he knew that if he could just touch that hand, he'd be saved; he'd be liberated.

So close.

Only inches of nothingness separated Raphael's hand from the other one. He longed to reach it, to touch it, to grab it.

He wondered if that hand... if the one attached to the hand would be strong enough to pull him out.

The other side of the paper dome called to him.

Freedom was so close.

_'Leo...'_

With a startled gasp that morphed into an awkward cough, Raphael found himself aware of the conscious world once more. He sat at the bench, gulping in heaps of air in a vain attempt to calm his fraying nerves.

Upon seeing the worried look on the face of the child before him, Raphael forced himself calm. He offered a tight-lipped smile and fought through the sea of thoughts to recall what he and the child had been talking about.

As if noticing the plight of forgetfulness, the little boy offered a small smile in return before saying. "So, if I study, and I try really hard, can I be a ninja... like you? Huh, Raffle?"

Steadying his breathing and shaking away stray fragments of apprehension, Raph shrugged and found his voice. "It... It takes a lot of work, but I don't see why ya couldn't."

In the blink of an eye, the kid was sitting in the turtle's lap with his little arms wrapped tightly around Raphael's neck. "Just wait, Raffle. One day, I'll be a hero, just like you."

Raph tensed at the physical contact- he'd never been a big fan of hugs- but he didn't have the heart to reject the child's affection. With only slight hesitation, he returned the gesture, slipping his own arms around the boy and holding him close; he rested his chin atop the boy's dark hair. With a deep breath expelled through a sigh, Raph confessed: "I'm more of an antihero, kid. I do my own thing, regardless of morals... but I always try ta do good. Don't always succeed, but I always try, at least."

The kid pulled away, his expression just as bright as it had been a moment ago. "You're a _hero_ because you do things ya don't have to do, Raffle. You're a hero 'cause you care. And you try really hard at everything." He reached up and placed his small hands at Raph's temples, cradling his large green head. "You might not think you're a hero in here, but..." he moved his hands down to Raph's plastron, where his heart lay beneath. "You're a hero in here."

Raph was speechless for a moment. He pulled the kid in for a hug- for himself or the boy, he couldn't be sure- before putting him down. "Uh, well, ninja-wannabe, why don't ya go study? Get really smart. Okay, ya knucklehead? And I'll see ya in a bit."

The boy nodded so fast, he could have given himself whiplash. "Alright. I'll get smarter. You get stronger. And when I get big, I'll get stronger too. And maybe one day, I can protect you too! I mean, I'll be _your_ hero. Because, even heroes need a hero, right?" With a punctuating giggle, the little boy ran off, his feet clapping against the floor with every step.

Raph watched him leave, fighting back a conflicting smile. He couldn't help it; the kid was so naive, so pure, so earnest... And, even though the kid was well out of earshot, he found himself mumbling "Have fun learnin,' _Timothy_. Yer a good kid." With that he turned to see another familiar face.

Nearby, a rookie Foot was working to strengthen his newly un-casted leg; his face was screwed up in a look of deep concentration.

Curious, Raph got up and moved over to the teen. "How's the leg?"

"Like spaghetti," Gunner grunted, doing a set of leg presses. "Add another weight, will you?"

With a shrug, Raph moved to the set of weights, pulled the pin, added a 5 lbs plate, and set the pin again. Looking over the rookie's legs, one was noticeably more firm and muscular than the other. Raph reached over and gripped the thinner calf. "Needs work, but yer gettin' there," he commented idly, letting go afterwards.

Gunner rolled his eyes, uncharacteristic frustration showing in the way he contorted his face and drew breath through clenched teeth. "Yeah, says the mutant," he breathed, starting a new set of presses with the added weight.

Raph's browline creased. "What's _that_ supposed ta mean?"

The young Foot didn't answer right away. Instead, he closed his eyes tight and focused on the exercise. One leg was working at full capacity, but he was heavily favoring the other one.

Still, Raph wasn't buying the 'deep-in-concentration' act. "Talk ta me, or so help me, I'll pile-drive ya. You don't get to start shit and not finish it."

Halting his presses, Gunner heaved a sigh. "Add a bit more weight, and I'll tell you."

Raph looked at the weights and pulled the pin again. He considered adding another 5 lbs but thought better of it. Instead, he dropped on another 20 before fixing the pin. Then he stood back, his stance wide, and folded his arms over his plastron, looking at the rookie Foot expectantly.

Gunner struggled with the added weight, the muscles in his thinner leg quivering visibly beneath the flesh. The progression was slow, but he managed to push the weights. After the first couple presses, it became easier. In his head, he counted out the sets.

Raph watched the first two or three sets in silence before speaking. "I think ya were tellin' me somethin'."

Gunner was reluctant, but under the gaze of those burning amber orbs, he conceded. "I guess I'm a little jealous," he said simply.

Raph was unamused, eyes darkening a shade.

"What I mean," the human continued, "is... I guess I've been in the Foot a lot longer than you have, but I'm not climbing any ranks. I'm stuck here. Not lame enough to be stuck in the Barracks, and not good enough to be an Elite. I've considered redirecting my training and working towards becoming a Foot Tech or a Medic, but... the Techs rarely see any action and being Medic blows. I've been stuck here, and... Well, then you come along, and you're instantly the favorite. Master Shredder _likes_ you; he puts up with your antics, and I've seen others _killed_ simply for looking at him the wrong way. It's hard _not_ to be jealous."

Raphael frowned. "This is really eatin' at ya, ain't it?"

Gunner shrugged. "Don't get me wrong, I'm happy here. I get to go to school. I get to have a life outside of here. And, this is my home, Raphael. The other ninja, they're my brothers. My family. I just...- You just...- Shredder thinks...-" Gunner clenched his teeth as the weights slid towards him; his weak leg was giving under the pressure.

Raph reached over and pulled the pin to unload the hefty plates before grabbing the human teen's hand and helping him up. After a moment of thinking, he spoke. "I get it. Yer not... gettin' the recognition... or the respect ya want from yer master. From your sensei." His shoulders slumped and he sighed. "Been there, rookie. Not a fun place ta be."

"How'd you fix it?"

Raphael hesitated. Then... "I didn't." Silence filled the weight room. The amount of time that passed was immeasurable, but Raph eventually spoke again. "Ya need ta do some leg extensions and curls. C'mon. That leg ain't gonna work itself."

The rest of the weight lifting session was uneventful with almost no more conversation passing between the two. Breathing, the movement of weights, and the occasional grunt were the only sounds that filled the room.

When they were decidedly done, they joined a larger faction of the Foot to run through a few simple obstacles to test their speed and agility. At the end of the course, weapons were acquired on a first-come first-serve basis and a sparring session ensued.

The way it worked, at the end of the course was a rack of various weapons. Upon arrival, the runner of the course would take one and move aside to wait for the next runner to do the same. After that, the two pair up.

As Raphael moved through the course with ease, he slowed down and waited for Gunner to catch up, deciding that if they paired up and sparred he could take the opportunity to help the young Foot ninja work out his obvious resentment.

They finished the course only seconds apart with the turtle in the lead.

Raph grabbed the first weapon he could get his hands on- at this point, the more favored traditional bladed weapons had all been nabbed by other ninja, and Raphael found himself taking a bo staff. The moment his fingers wrapped around it, a painful throb pulsed through his head and caused him to visibly wince.

_'Donnie...'_

He instinctively released the bo and grabbed the next thing he could get his hands on. A set of Tekko Kagi- a sharp row of blades that slipped over the hand and was held in the palm by a horizontal bar... Essentially, it was a set of hand-claws that could be used to slash or stab...

The moment Raphael touched the sharpened weapon and realized he was caught between the limited choices of the claws and the bo, a bite of panic tore though him. The simple choice of which weapon to spar with felt like it held so much more meaning.

A weapon as sharp and foreboding as the claws that resembled something the Shredder might use, versus the simple defensive staff that his calm pacifist brother wielded.

At the last second, he decided to toss the claws aside and make due with the bo. It would be better that way, he knew. But just before he could ditch the Tekko Kagi and stake a claim to the other weapon, Gunner had already snatched it up and gave it a twirl before slipping into a fighting stance.

For a moment, Raphael stood there, a cold numbness beginning to swell within, but he choked it down. The weapons in his hands felt oddly heavy and wrong. Still, he affirmed his grip and widened his own stance.

_'Just a spar... It doesn't have ta mean anythin'.'_

In the blink of an eye, the young Foot moved in, not necessarily acting offensive- rather, working to provoke his foe into striking.

"Let's not take all day. C'mon, Raphael. -Or, should I call you: Shredder Jr?" Gunner sniggered at his own joke and swung the bo, intending to trip the turtle.

But something wild flashed behind Raph's amber orbs. Those words, the implications, along with the weapons in his hands... A quick back flip, and Raph was out of harm's way; he harshly threw the Tekko Kagi to the ground and fought the sudden urge to tackle the rookie Foot. With substantial effort, he turned away, eyes darting left and right, left again, frantic with the need to outrun his problems.

Half a breath later, and he made a less than ceremonious exit.

He made a beeline for the infirmary and slammed the door shut behind him. He looked around at the white walls and felt entirely unsettled. Still, he moved over and flicked on the UVB lamp. Then he seated himself on the bed with his carapace facing the light; the warmth soothed him, but it was hardly enough. He placed his head in his hands and tried to make sense of things.

"Just want it all ta stop," he groaned loudly, steadily increasing the pressure of his hands on his head until it hurt. Only then did he gradually ease up. "I can't keep doin' this yo-yo bullshit. Things can't go from good to bad, to good again. I need... something. Something ta take my mind off it all."

His mind conjured up a large smile and obnoxious laughter, sincere blue eyes beneath an orange mask.

_'Mikey...'_

Biting his lip, Raphael rocked back and forth in an attempt to soothe himself.

_'I always thought it'd be better this way. Me, on my own. Without you guys. Always thought you'd be better off if I wasn't puttin' ya in danger. Thought I'd be strong enough ta handle it... but what if I'm wrong?'_

Suddenly, it was as if a dam had burst. He felt it again. That swell of emotions. The pain, anger, regret, guilt. Frustration and hurt.

Anger at himself, at the world. At his former rat-sensei and his current human-master. Hatred for the world and the life he led.

With a deep inhale, he growled; the sound was a low and deep rumble.

Looking around at all the white, he felt closed-in. He felt trapped. He recalled the restriction of that paper dome, and mild panic set it. He needed to run. He needed air. He needed opens spaces. Rooftops. Running. The clang of metal rungs of a fire escape beneath his feet.

Realization hit him like winter air.

Central wasn't home. And it never would be. He was playing a foolish game of pretend, and one day... that game would have to come to an end.

With a cry of frustration, he turned and landed a kick to the nearest thing he could- the UVB lamp. He knocked it from its perch and it collided harshly with the tiled floor. While the bulb never made direct impact and didn't shatter, it did blink a few times before dying out.

Raph felt a shiver from deep within, and he doubted it had anything to do with the lack of light.

All he really knew was that he had to do _something_. Anything. Before his emotions swallowed him whole. Before his destructive nature became too much for him to handle.

...

* * *

_[Shredder]_

Oroku Saki's face contorted with one of his rare displays of earnest anger; the expression, however, was lost beneath the guise of metal.

"The Golden Shuriken means nothing if I can't access its power," he seethed and began pacing. His arms were tossed out in a grand gesture. "I don't understand; it had been actively _glowing_ when Raphael wore the pendant. Somehow, _he_ was able to tap into it..."

"Master Shredder," a high-ranking Foot called to him. "Master Shredder, it appears that the amulet has linked itself and its magicks to the turtle's spirit. If that connection cannot be severed, the relic will be useless."

"And how do we break that connection?" Shredder sneered at his underling, wanting answers; he was in no mood to tolerate impudence.

Thankfully, the answer came without delay.

"Simple, Master Shredder. It's linked to his spirit. We break his spirit, we break the connection. Once the connection is broken, the amulet is yours."

Shredder took in the words and began running scenarios through his head. "In that case, I will strike at his weak points. Raphael is strong and stubborn; physical damage would not be of any use. I shall aim for the parts of him he cannot control: his emotions and his intellect."

...

* * *

_[At the Lair]_

Leonardo knelt before his sensei and looked up to him with hope-filled eyes. "I'm so close, Master Splinter. So close..."

The rat closed his eyes and said nothing. He knew his eldest son had been trying to reach his missing sibling, but hope was hard to hold onto. Even for himself. Splinter had tried and failed time and again to even locate his missing son's spirit. For every attempt, he was met with fog and darkness and walls; at one point, he'd found himself in a labyrinth of metal- the walls of which were covered in razors and spikes. His own trips to the Astral Plane had been filled with screams of frustration and tears of desperation.

Fear. Claustrophobia. Sheer panic. Loneliness.

He couldn't find his son... but the _feelings_ \- as negative as they were- were overwhelming, and they were not his own. Splinter had wondered, if perhaps those feelings could belong to Raphael. It would make sense, but he could not imagine his strong son feeling so weak. If this was the case, the cause was unforgivable.

With a contemplative sigh, Splinter opened his eyes to regard the blue-banded ninja. "Leonardo, my son," his voice was strained as he spoke. "Perhaps, it is time to take a rest in our search through meditative means. Some time away from it will refresh our spirits and realign our perception. And, it would be best... to focus on Donatello and Michelangelo before they go further astray."

Leo's shoulders tensed and he looked to his paternal figure with a strange mix of surprise and disdain. "Sensei, I trust your judgement, but you can't be serious. I don't think you understand how close I am. I _saw_ him. I'm almost there. I can bring Raphael back. I can-"

"And, if you _do_ bring back his spirit, who will bring him back physically? Who will remind your brothers who they are and where they belong? They have fallen out of line. You, Leonardo, are the eldest brother; you are the leader. You are responsible for-"

"I am responsible for Raphael too, sensei." Leo paused, realizing that, for perhaps the first time in his life, he was directly defying his sensei's wishes. And he wasn't the least bit sorry for it. After a moment of thought, he added: "I trust Don and Mike to do what is right. I trust Raph to be safe until I can help him. And I trust _you_ to push me forward instead of holding me back. This isn't about the clan or the team; it's about family."

Splinter's ears flatted against his head and his tail lashed out. "If you are insinuating that I do not care about this family-"

"You gave up on Karai, Master Splinter. Don't give up on Raph too. He's not perfect, but he deserves better than that."

"Leonardo-"

"And, sensei, I'm not perfect either. No one is. You trained us to be ninja, and we've thrived, but in doing so, I've forgotten how to be a brother. But I'm learning. And I'm going to fix everything. It- It's not just Don's job to fix things. It's not Mike's job to make everyone happy. And it shouldn't have been Raph's job to be the martyr."

Splinter pulled his tail close, wringing it between his small clawed hands as he took in his son's wise words. His heart was both heavy with shame and light with pride; his son was growing up wise and strong. His son, despite his young age and inexperience, was evolving. No longer the little tot who wobbled on shaky legs and desperately sought for attention, his son was leaping into a pool of maturity and adulthood.

How could the rat not be proud, despite his inner pain?

But, another thought struck the rodent, and he voiced it. "Leonardo, my son, you seem so adamant in sharing duties between one another, but what of you and your own duties as leader? There is no one to take the burden from your shoulders."

Getting to his feet, Leo looked at his sensei and gave the most strained smile he'd ever had in his life. "That's up to you, sensei. But, with or without help, I will stand alongside my brothers. I will lead them to battle, and then I will lead them home. Through life, I will guide them to the best of my abilities. I will lift them up when they are down, and if my shoulders become permanently marked with their footprints, so be it; I will bear those markings with pride. But before I am a leader, I will strive to be a brother. The question is, before it's too late, will you remember how to be a father? You seem to have forgotten..."

Silence loomed after that.

Leo contemplated making an exit, but he held off. He offered an unreadable look to his sensei before speaking again. He had a lot on his mind and in his chest, and it felt good to share his thoughts so openly. "When we were younger, sensei, you personally taught me calligraphy. You gave Don a typewriter that he fixed and taught himself to use. You gave Mike his first set of paints, and he was always putting his art on display for us. And Raph got a pen and a notebook that he kept to himself and guarded with his life; did you ever think to ask what he wanted it for?"

No answer.

Leo took a deep breath, needing to gather courage to say what was on his mind and in his heart. "Raph wanted it to write the things he couldn't talk about. The things he couldn't say to us, or to you. Now, I have things to do, and I want you to stay in here, meditate, and think about what this means, as well as your involvement. After that, I want you to write a formal apology to Raph- and if you feel so inclined, then write one to the rest of us as well. Until then, consider yourself grounded, sensei." With that, Leo stood tall, squared his shoulders, and walked out, leaving behind an emotionally confused rat.


	30. Ch 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH 29**

* * *

_[Journal Entry]_

_I've been thinkin'. Everyone always says ya can't run from the past... but I think we CAN run from it, hide from it, abolish it, treat it like a disease, and acknowledge it with all the degradation of a fucked up nightmare... But, we ain't never able ta let go of it, not really. It becomes part of who we are. And one thing we ain't able ta run from, is ourselves. No matter how fast we are, we can't keep the pace necessary to hide from our own faults and insecurities._   
_I can ignore them, yeah, but only for so long before I give in and welcome 'em back with shame and sorrow and damning relief. No matter the distance time has supplied, it's never far behind._   
_It's like I'm runnin' a marathon in circles, never truly goin' anywhere but refusing to remain in place. I can't keep stationary._   
_So, I'm just goin' ta keep going until somethin' gets in my way. Then I'll dispatch it and keep goin.'_   
_Right now, only one thing stands between myself and this blood-lined anchor that is my past. That thing, I'll hold onto it. But, in doing so, I'm testing personal boundaries that are best left alone. I'm testing strength I ain't got. And I'm tryin'... tryin'... to..._

Any words that followed were harshly scribbled to the point of tearing the page. Blue ink and torn paper forming a mess of hidden angst. Over-inked, under-told.

The words that rested with and without excess ink to hide them were written in a familiar notebook and tossed aside hours ago. More currently, Raphael stood on a rooftop with his back to the wind. Geared up in his radioactive heated belt and a set of new metal shin guards with matching bracers, he flipped his sais around in his hands, twirling and adjusting his grip in a constant stream of motion that displayed years of practice, yet he made it seem so effortless...

Under a dark moonless sky, he allowed the openness of night to drown him. It felt good to get out of Central. To find himself free of obligation and just... be alone. Ironically, he'd always hated being alone, but now, he welcomed it.

Being out like this, he felt almost peaceful. His emotions, for just one precious moment, were a million miles away. All that mattered was himself under a blanket of stars-not that the stars were plentiful in the smog-laden city.

He scuffed his feet against the grainy textures beneath him, curling his toes in a familiar way that calmed his heartbeat, granted him the illusion of perfunctory serenity.

Yet, in the blink of an eye, the imaginary emotional-oasis faded away; in a single instant that lacked the slightest provocation, he was tanked by thoughts.

Recent chronology warring with memory and and idealism.

In truth, the emerald-skinned mutant was no Zen master. His world was full of chaos and strife, and no matter how he chose to deal with it, it was never the right option. Never enough. Never anything positive or productive. Just one more mess among a million other faults he had. But tonight wasn't a night to mope. Tonight had nothing to do with his insecurities.

Tonight was about escape. The way some people might read or play videogames, he sought physical banishment in favor of finding freedom from obligation and personal horrors.

He slipped his sais into their respective slots in his RTG belt and crouched down on that roof, leering over edge to peer at the city like a gargoyle. This spot, this position, it felt good. Almost as if he was on another routine patrol, keeping watch like some sort of protector.

Where no God would dirty their hands to save this city from moronic douchebags with villainous intent, Raphael would step in and do so. He'd _own_ the city. For all intent and purpose, the city was his. For all the effort he and his brothers had put into it, he certainly deserved some claim to it.

The thought made him grin, prideful at the montage of memories- memories of himself apprehending and tying up masses of robbers and potential murderers and rapists. Memories of himself knocking a ski-masked man to the ground and ordering victimized children to go to the police station and call home. Memories of himself knuckling lowlife after lowlife and ridding the streets of Purple Dragon scum.

The good ol' days.

Then again, as those memories flitted into his mind, they were also accompanied by others that were less than gratifying. The perps that got away. People with guns. Close calls. Numerous injuries to himself, his brothers, and innocent humans who got in the way. And, worse than anything, the terrified scream when a young woman might get a fair look at his mutated form and panic...

It hurt, knowing that he'd never live up to some imaginary expectation. He could be a saint and a hero, but never in a million years would he be seen as such.

Never the magnificent being on posters and in newspapers, televised interviews, he'd always be the _thing_ left to rot in the shadows: the horrific _beast_ under the bed and in children's nightmares.

No matter how hard he tried, he'd always be less than wonted. The thought left a chilling pit in his stomach, soured his expression.

From his perch, he spat and watched with disinterest as a wad of spit made its way downward until it reached the pavement below. He imagined the squelching 'splat' that didn't reach his ear slits.

Then he sighed and planted a hand over his eyes; he rubbed his beak and drew in a breath before lowering his hand and returning his attention to the streets below. He watched sparse groups of humans mill about, cars pass, street lights blink.

To an extent, he simply watched time fade away.

Then, after an immeasurable amount of time, his keen eyes caught a series of moving shadows that he knew all too well. Seeing them, he almost smiled.

The Foot.

His brethren.

He knew most of them by name and skill-set. By rank and weapon preference. He knew most of them by the color and shape of their eyes beneath the uniform masks they wore on missions. He knew a few of them enough to be clued into their personal lives. And while he wasn't exactly on friend-to-friend terms with everyone, he harbored no ill will towards anyone; as far as he knew, the feeling was mutual.

As Raphael stared down at the small group of ninja, it was easy enough to see what they were up to.

They were playing transporter. Picking up precious cargo and moving it from one lot to another to be picked up by an awaiting party. Acting as a delivery service. A simple, clean, effortless job that required little more than patience and stealth. And even that much was considerably optional given the small amount of human traffic in this part of the city.

Raph didn't need to be here to witness the job. He himself wasn't on any mission other than to clear his head and waste the night away; it was by pure chance he'd even come across the group of ninja.

Still, almost like a guardian, he found himself watching. He counted them off, eight ninja in total. Two were working together to move a large wooden crate; one was holding a box of various metal components; two were carrying briefcases; and the last three were simply armed and ready to fight if necessary.

Raph _did_ smile at that. As he watched the way they moved, he caught onto their formation and already- even from such a distance- could tell that these Foot were some of the ' _expendables_ ' that resided in the Barracks. Lower than rookies, not even on the map. These were the older runaways that came seeking a place to belong, a purpose in life. For them to successfully pull even a small job like this, it earned them brownie points to potentially move up in rank. Higher privileges, improved status, liberties and advantages.

Being in the Foot could grant them opportunities. Skill-sets. Schooling. A future they otherwise might have missed out on...

And the turtle was almost happy for them. Because, this was what they wanted. A chance to understand themselves, their capabilities, and prove their worth. A chance to mean something, even if they were used as tools and nothing more.

The world had dealt them a bad hand, and they were trading cards under the table, trying to improve what they had to work with. Raising bets and calling bluffs. Trying to alter the inevitable outcome. Trying to find success where fear and loathing might have otherwise been pulled into play.

Despite intent and deeds, it was routinely stressed that everyone acted on their own accord. Whether or not they conformed to Master Shredder's wishes, it was ultimately their own choice. Their hands thieving supplies and instruments for destruction. Their eyes and ears prying for information. Their souls traded for the illusion of pride. And their honor stained red when things got out of hand.

Raphael's smile faded; he sighed heavily and dropped his head.

He pondered humans, as individuals and as a whole.

_'The price of life, it ain't much. Humans are so abundant. This city... is overrun. Unless ya know 'em personally, one human is just the same as the next. Potential victims and criminals all crammed together. Always attacking or being attacked. Never peaceful fer long. So stupid. Selfish. Everyone's just goin' day to day, survivin'... But, un-being dead ain't the same as bein' alive. They're all wastin' their time. Wastin' their lives away. They're all the same. Copies of each other, all wearin' different faces. Different masks.'_

He raised a hand and lightly traced a finger around his eyes where his own red mask once resided. The very idea of wearing a mask seemed foreign. For the first time, it occurred to him just how pointless those masks were. The masks didn't conceal anything; if nothing else, the masks made himself and the other mutants easier to identify. Yet, he could so easily recall a time when it was deemed necessary.

Perhaps those masks were a symbol of unity among himself and his brothers?

It was a plausible idea, but he dismissed it. They were united no longer. He didn't belong with them. He was not a member of the Hamato clan. He bore no mask; there was no need for it. He'd earned his spot among the Foot; he'd knelt before the Shredder; and he'd forsaken the rodent whose nonexistent approval once meant the world to him.

That's just the way it was. There was no fixing it. There was _nothing_ to fix. He'd chosen this path, stepped onto it, and walked down it. It wasn't smooth and simple; it was jagged and rough and made him weary, but he was too far along to stop. There was no turning back; he could only go forward. This was his life. He'd wanted it, and he got it.

His family now was clad in black. The closest thing he had to a paternal figure was the Shredder. And Raphael couldn't be bothered to be upset about it.

It was his life. He didn't have to share it. He could have privacy if he wished it. He could train or run the city. He could be alone if he wanted. He had respect and responsibilities; he was offered praise for his success.

 _'So why can't I just be happy with it?!'_ With a grunt of frustration he trained his eyes on the Foot below, tracking their every move. _'Need ta work on stealth,'_ he thought idly as he watched them shuffle around, huddled together to obviously discuss their next movements. Raphael surveyed them from his post. He carefully blanked his expression as he watched the ninja finally fade into the darkness and leave his field of vision. With any luck, they'd succeed and come into a few perks that would urge them to keep going, keep them _wanting_ to earn the Shredder's good grace. Before long, they'd be trapped between the guilt and praise, and... in time... the praise would outweigh the guilt. In time, they'd draw strength and motivation from menial and trivial blessings.

Eventually, they'd become slaves to their own desire for recognition.

Just like everyone else, Raph included.

And for a moment, Raphael felt sick. Because he was no better than them. And they were no better than him.

Wanting to feel worthy. Wanting praise that had always eluded him. To a small extent, he could almost find logic for the rat to withhold commendation and words of approval. But if this was the case, why would his brothers receive it in doses while he was left embittered in its absence?

_'At least Master Shredda gives credit where credit is due. I don't have ta bite my tongue or do any flips when I fuck up. Haven't... Haven't had ta flip fer punishment in forever, but it's a humiliation I can't forget. Doubt people would understand... but... it's like... like on TV, when a kid gets called out in class ta stand in front of a board to work out a math problem they don't understand. That's the feelin'. That nervousness. That embarrassment. The worry that yer gonna look stupid... I wonder if the old rat can even flip anymore. He's off his rocker; he's gotten slow; he used ta be this invincible thing. He used to be a parent. My father and my sensei, but he stopped bein' my father, and I rebuke him as a teacher... I hope the bastard gets mange.'_

As Raphael fought to sort through his thoughts, part of his mind opted to reinstate that his involvement with Shredder was about more than the lack of praise from his former sensei. It had nothing to do with the ridiculous punishments he'd been subjected to in the past. It was more important than that; less superficial.

As he regarded the matter and his reasoning, his mind recalled _red_ ; his fingers recalled the warm stickiness of fresh blood. For a moment, he felt a surge of panic and had to glance at his sais just to make sure they weren't dripping crimson. He calmed instantly upon seeing them glint. Flawless steel, unmarred. Beautiful.

He pushed his more horrid thoughts away just in time to make room for another. In particular, he thought of three green faces, all smiling by varying degrees.

His brothers- formerly.

Their innocence.

In his mind's eye, those smiling faces morphed into expressions of discontent, each accompanied by a voice.

Leonardo's disapproving glare. _'You need to work on your form. You are too impulsive and rash. Too focused on brute force. Your lack of respect for-'  
_ Donatello's worry vaguely coveted by a mask of calm. _'It's alright, Raph; I know it was an accident.'  
_ Michelangelo's large fearful eyes right as Raphael moved in to bludgeon him with a pipe. _'Raphie...'_

With a hard shake of his head, Raphael fought to dislodge the thoughts. He was out of their lives now. He would no longer endanger them or cause them worry. He would not harm them. And he would not be the source- direct or otherwise- of their corrupted innocence.

He chuckled softly, almost bitterly. But it was worth it. Trading his own dignity and honor for theirs. His brothers- the other turtles- those reptiles, true to the Shredder's word, the other mutants had gone unharmed and un-targetted. This was the one thing Raphael could do for them. A small sacrifice on his part, to spare them grief.

If his pride and sanity slowly evaporated as well, he'd endure it. And if he garnished a hand on the shoulder now and then, he could live with that.

Despite his inner conflict, he'd made his choice. Life wasn't all that bad, and he needed to stop feeding the illusion that things would change anytime soon.

In time, he was sure he'd be able to put his past behind him; it was only holding him back, making him weak and emotionally unstable.

Given enough time... anything was possible.


	31. Ch 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH 30**

* * *

Still on that roof, under the star-laced blackness that was the night, Raphael kept his perch and looked out over the unassuming city. He loved this city. He loved how alive it was; his pulse thrummed in tune with the artificial nature around him. His eyes drank in the contrast of light and shadow, and he found himself content, for just a moment.

The sights, sounds, and smells... If there was a heaven, he couldn't imagine it being much different than this.

He missed _this_. He missed rooftops and open spaces. He missed feeling like a protector of something. He missed being able to step in and save the day, regardless of whether or not he was appreciated for his deeds...

A woman's shriek stole his attention, tore him from his musings. The distress call came from an alley below. His gaze found the source of the sound and he acted impulsively before rational thought could beg otherwise. He dropped from the highrise of the building, drawing his weapons mid-air and stabbing his blades into a pillar, the mad friction slowing his fall enough that he could drop into the alley soundlessly with almost no recoil.

The woman was backed against a wall, eyes wide and fearful as she clutched her purse; two men were pursuing her, one holding a gun and the other reaching for her purse. The way the men were dressed, so similar, both wearing modified biker helmets, they must've been part of one of the newer gangs.

Based on what Raph knew strictly from hearsay, without himself and the other mutant reptiles working regular patrols, and with the Foot inactive in terms of keeping the local wannabe gangs in line, crime in the city had skyrocketed. Half a dozen gangs fought regularly over various territories, and some parts of New York were potential war zones.

And the police were doing what they did best to help. Nothing.

But Raph was there, and he was going to put an end to it. One thug at a time, if he had to. Hell, if he got the ' _All Clear_ ' from Shredder, perhaps he could work a light faction of the Foot towards tanking the unnecessary spread of gangs. It would be beneficial to everyone, Foot and civilian alike.

The idea filled him with a sense of excitement and purpose, a thrill he found himself lacking before. It could be done. It would be productive. It would be justice, dealt in physical blows, verbal threats and good intentions.

But first, the poor woman in the alley. She was defenseless. Hero or not, Raphael would have none of this victimizing shit on his watch. He tore through the alley and first went for the armed man. He caught the man from behind in a headlock and easily batted the weapon from his grip before kicking it away; holding the man firmly and carefully keeping his tri-bladed weapons angled away from the human, he stepped back into the shadows and out of direct sight.

The sound of the gun skittering across the pavement drew the attention of gangster number two. He whirled around, his back now facing the woman as he worked to locate his partner in crime. "Who's there?! What's going-"

"A nut like you should leave the nice lady alone," Raph said, remaining hidden as he adjusted his hold on the first human and effectively fixed him into a sleeperhold. He mentally counted down the seconds until the man would pass out.

The second goon was reeling. "S-Step out of the shadows and face me, you coward!"

"Trust me, neither of us want that," Raph said truthfully. Feeling the first man go slack in his arms, the mutant dropped him carelessly to the ground. "I don't want no trouble. I just want ya ta leave the nice lady alone. Go find and rob a Purple Dragon or somethin'. Leave the innocent outta the equation, or yer gonna find yourself at the mercy-end of my blade." He tightened his hold on the weapons and kept his keen eyes on the scene before him.

The woman was trembling, purse clutched to her chest, but curiosity caused her to lean forward and try to see through the darkness to the one willing to help her. Her heart swelled with pending gratitude and words of thanks were at the tip of her tongue.

Then, the second goon spoke again. "If you're too much of a coward to step out of the shadows and fight me, then what have I got to worry about?" He roughly jerked back towards the woman and snatched her purse; then he broke out into a run.

Raph snorted. "I missed this. I love when they make me chase 'em." Stepping out of the pool of darkness, he revealed his mutated form to the woman, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Maybe he was careless. Reckless. Maybe he'd spent too much time with humans to see it as a problem. "Stay here, lady. I'll get yer stuff back in a sec." With that, he lurched forward and sprinted after the fleeing human.

The night was young. Raphael's vigor was renewed. And as he chased down another bumbling lowlife purse-snatcher, he could almost forget the absence of three individuals with appearances not unlike his own.

This was a one-turtle mission.

And for the moment, that was perfectly fine. He almost couldn't wait to get back to Master Shredder to bring up the idea of cleansing the city.

After all, humans were abundant. And the number of crooks was growing out of proportion. If Raphael didn't work to even the odds, who would?

This city was full of crime. Darkness. Poor intentions and even poorer decisions. There was no cosmic guiding star or miraculous force with all the answers. People were so naive. Always thinking that nothing bad was going to happen, and when something bad finally did, they assumed it couldn't get worse. They held onto false hope, painted their own skies with the delusion that things would get better. And when the truth finally sank in and revealed that their horrors were permanent, they crumbled.

Fell apart.

Rotted and decayed.

And then, just to mock them, perhaps a stray dog would wander over, hike its leg, and piss on their remains.

The world was falling apart.

The humans weren't safe from natural discord or each other.

Someone had to do something.

And Raphael would.

_'One creep at a time. One day (or night) at a time. One breath at a time. One step at a time. One single thought at a time.'_

At long last, Raphael cornered the crook and closed in on him.

"Yer muckin' up my city..." he said, voice low. "And I don't like that. Makes me wanna muck up yer face..."

...

* * *

_[Later, Early morning, Foot Central]_

It was still dark when Raphael entered Central, seeing the world through the visor of a metal helmet he'd acquired from the nameless thug. He was quickly greeted by an unarmored Oroku Saki who stood with his arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

Seeing him, Raph raised a three-fingered hand in greeting as he approached. Then, without a second thought, he dropped down on one knee but kept his head lifted, looking directly at the human he called 'master.'

"Raphael," the man said, voice sharp, scolding. "The hour is late and your absence was unwarranted and without my consent."

The turtle raised a shoulder in a casual half-shrug. "It's a free world, and I'm a free turtle. I ain't did nothin' stupid."

Ignoring the comment, the human narrowed his eyes further before speaking. "Just... take that infernal thing off," Shredder pointed at the helmet. His slack posture and fuming aura spoke volumes of stress and agitation.

So, Raphael complied, taking the metal headgear between his hands and sliding it up and off; he curled it under one arm before speaking, his own tone light. "Soupy, chill. It's a souvenir. A trophy. Got it from this thug." He smirked at the memory. "Besides, I think it makes me look more like you... _dad_." He bit his lip and fought to quell the slight chuckle that tried and partly succeeded to escape. "If you can call me _son_ , I don't see why I can't return the endearment." Perhaps it was due to the beatdown he laid on that thug, but he was feeling bold, confident, downright chipper under the stony gaze of his human-master.

Unfortunately, the human didn't feel the same. Shredder raised a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Raphael, while I appreciate the implication- after all, imitation is the most sincere form of flattery- I need to remind you that you left without telling me. If I am to play the role of your father, then you must heed the rules and-"

"And, what yer forgettin', _pops_ , is that I'm a teenager. And a rebel. And honestly, I needed some air. Needed ta get out. I ain't caused no trouble. Just busted a couple idiots. Felt pretty good too. And... I got ta thinkin', what if I take my faction of the Foot, and I take a stab at cleanin' some of the crooks off the street? The city is overrun with gangs and wannabes; it's gettin' ridiculous."

The man sighed loudly and glared hard at the turtle, processing and genuinely considering the words offered. One minute turned into two, then three. Four. Five... Then, he parroted: "You wish to... take a _stab_ at it?" His tone was mocking, wrought with scarcely hidden assumption and accusation.

If Raph caught on, he showed no signs. Instead, he gave a firm nod. "The city needs help."

"Are you trying to play at being a hero?"

"Nah, I'm an antihero. But the city still needs someone to clean it up. You wanna rule the city, right, Master Shredda? Wouldn't it be better if there was less scum on the street? It's my city too. Let me do this. Let me-"

"Fine."

Before fully processing the brief response, Raph assumed the worse and habitually scowled; he opened his mouth to retort and further explain himself, but he stopped before anything stupid could be said. Instead, he asked a single-worded, inarticulate question. "Whaa?" His confusion was evident.

Shredder drew in a breath before taking a knee and mimicking Raphael's position so they were perfectly at eye-level. "I said it is _fine_. If this nonsense will appease you, I will approve- _if_ you follow my rules and do it under my terms."

Raphael nodded mechanically, thoughtlessly, still trying to process that his suggestion was not only considered, but also acquiesced. He was speechless. Wide-eyed. And caught up enough in the moment to agree with just about anything.

Whatever his master was saying, it was falling on deaf ears as Raph considered the light and airy feeling that lifted his insides and made something in his chest swell pleasantly. _'So, this is what Cloud Nine feels like?'_ he mused, finding himself fighting back a small smile. Because, more than praise, his words were considered and found to have value. He was given a green-light for something he could put his heart and soul into. Something he truly believed in. He could be a protector. He could save the city. He could-

"-but only if I permit the allotted time. Only if it does not interfere with other missions I will have assigned to you. And only if you hide your identity on your escapades. I will not have your acts as a vigilante associated with your name, the Foot, or myself."

"But I'm Raphael. I'm a mutant turtle. How am I supposed ta hide my-"

"Leave that to me, Raphael." Shredder paused for a moment and glanced thoughtfully at the helmet in Raphael's grasp. He held his tongue for a minute longer as he came to a decision before voicing it. "And, speaking of your name, Raphael, I am _claiming_ it. The word, it is mine, and mine alone. In or out of Foot Central, no one aside from me is privileged to use the word to address you. You, Raphael, are _my_ son. You belong to me and no one else. Forget what those fools in the Hamato clan have forced into your head. If you wish to play hero, I will allow it, but remember who it is you work for. Remember who cares about you. Remember where you belong."

Raph's browline creased and he set his jaw tight, teeth clenched. For having been so elated a moment ago, he was now entirely too confused. "What-"

"Raphael, show me respect or you can spend a week locked in the infirmary with only Professor Perry to keep you company. It is late. I am tired. And I do not appreciate having to worry for the well-being of my best asset. You will behave. You will follow my rules. And if you step out of line, I will-"

Blinking, Raph interrupted: "Wait, back up a sec, Soupy. I'm your _best_ asset? And... you were _worried_ fer me?" Despite everything else, he couldn't hold back the wide grin that nearly split his face in two. "Good ta know, _dad_. But it's late. I'm tired; I'm gonna head ta bed. I'll see ya fer breakfast. I'm thinkin' cereal. And we'll talk then. 'Kay?" He didn't wait for an answer. He slung an arm around the human in an awkward one-armed hug that he quickly pulled away from before getting up and walking off, helmet still tucked under his other arm; the infirmary beckoned him.

With the turtle's departure, Shredder continued to crouch awkwardly as he processed what had happened, whether or not things were in his favor. The answer was unclear. The mutant was obviously too comfortable and content with his position and the turn of events, but the more blissfully unaware he was of what was going on behind the scenes, the harder he would take the inevitable fall.

And he _had_ to fall sooner or later. His spirit needed to be broken. It was a matter of timing and careful planning. Until then, it was all a game. And Shredder was a mastermind of games. He would have Raphael under his thumb, and when the time was right, he'd crush the turtle. But he had to take it slow. Lure him into a false sense of security. Allow the mutant to reach an all-time high before sending him to his lowest low. It would be a harsh plummet. It would destroy him.

Shredder drew himself to full height and decided to make preparations for breakfast. Not that he would cook or anything of the sort, but if he wanted to play the game and win, he'd need to tip the board and maneuver the pieces so that the odds were more in his favor.

...

* * *

_[Meanwhile, at the Lair]_

Michelangelo's eyes were wide as he stared at the television screen. Unable to sleep and exhausted from his futile search earlier, he'd retired to the couch and began to channel surf. It was pure chance that he'd happened upon the NEWS during an interview. A scantily-clad female was jumping up and down; her large breasts jiggling before the camera as she excitedly babbled: _"And then, this guy came in and saved me! But... he was GREEN! He looked like some kind of lizard..."_

The orange-banded ninja did a spit-take with his Orange Crush before rising from his seat and shouting: "Donniiiiiee! Smack Leo out of meditation and get in here!"


	32. Ch 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: This chapter touches up on the Hamato clan. Next chapter picks up with Raphael.

**CH 31**

* * *

_[Hamato clan]_

Without Raphael, the only static element in the sewers was the segregation among its sentient occupants.

Splinter had tried a hundred times to write an appropriate letter to Raphael at Leonardo's insistence, but the words would not come easy, and whatever he managed to put on paper never seemed good enough. He'd lost a son to his own carelessness and neglect. The time apart from his rebellious son had caused a pit of despair to consume him, and he'd all but given up. He knew he shouldn't have, but the hope he had for his son's return had slipped away. His family was falling apart, and all he could do was watch. Any attempt he'd made to subdue the remaining turtles had started with good intentions and ended in tears and angry words from any or all of the mutant teenagers. The last of his hope had been dashed upon hearing the first utterance of _'I hate you._ ' After that, he sought solace in meditation, though even that seemed futile. The Astral Plane became a place of security; even if he could not reach out to the one who needed him most, he still tried. He owed his family that much.

It was a mess.

Leonardo himself rarely took breaks from meditation for food, hygiene, and light training, but his heart wasn't in perfecting a kata or asserting his leadership. His heart wasn't in the dojo or along the rooftops of the city. His mind was a million miles away; his body was on auto-pilot; and his heart was on a constant search for his missing brother. Part of him wondered, if he'd taken the time to really hear Raphael, to truly listen, if things might be different. Leo knew the burden of being a leader; he knew the complications of balancing that with brotherhood. But one thing that troubled him most, was that he so completely failed at both positions. He'd failed the family and lost a brother; he'd failed the team and lost their source of strength. Their unity depleted. And while he was so close to making progress and working to mend the rift that had formed, 'close' just wasn't enough. Like horseshoes and hand grenades.

It was a disaster.

Donatello's presence at the Lair was becoming a rarity. From dusk til dawn, he was topside. Searching endlessly. Desperate. He'd taken up a trench coat and hat to roam the streets. The crowd of humans, all faceless and meaningless for all he was concerned, were nothing but a nuisance as he searched for a familiar shade of green- to no avail. He'd abandoned logic. He followed Casey and shook down thugs. He questioned bystanders and grew angry when answers didn't turn up. Of course, he kept up that calm facade, but the mask was slipping. He could tell by the way his own hands curled into fists without conscious thought. He could tell by the dull heat that swelled from within, and by the foul images that played through his head when he managed a few minutes of fitful rest. Images of himself battering a masked thug... and the mask coming off... to reveal his own lost brother. And, for those dreams, Donatello would jolt awake with a silent scream and scramble for the old, cold and stale coffee- in the very same cup that was handle-less and covered in hairline fractures that had been carefully sealed. -Due to those dreams, more often than not, he didn't sleep. Didn't dream. He just pushed himself onwards, drawing energy from an already over-taxed reservoir. Because when he dreamed, the pain was just as real as when he was awake, but at least when he was conscious he could control how he reacted. He could bury that pain and force the calm facade; he could play the part of the pacifist or the aggressor if he chose. He could...-

It was a catastrophe.

Michelangelo left the Lair a fraction as much as his genius brother, but when he did, it was almost always to tag along or help cover more ground when they searched. Yet, a few times, even though he so badly wanted to find Raphael, he found himself needing to escape, ditching his route in favor of climbing through April's apartment window. He found himself curled up on the couch next to her with her arms wrapped protectively around him. And he found himself telling her everything. About what he read in Raph's Journals. About how things were at the Lair. About that time he killed a human- a little girl... It had been an accident. But ultimately, it had been his hands that knocked her from the overpass. His eyes that watched an 18-wheeler slam into her. And it had been his own arms that gathered and cradled her shattered and lifeless form when passersby feigned blindness... And it all started because he wanted to play a game of Tag with a curious human girl who didn't scream at the sight of him... In his excitement, he tagged her a little too hard, knocked her off balance, and sent her plummeting. He couldn't get to her in time; he couldn't save her. And in the end, he left her body to be found and dealt with by the other humans. Mikey had been powerless to help. It had been his fault, but worse than the death itself was the fact that he could never have carried her to a hospital; he could never attend her funeral; and he could never tell the girl's parents how sorry he was. Because he wasn't human. Because he wasn't meant to be part of their world. Because, all he was meant to have, was his brothers and sensei and their enemies. And now, minus one brother, he was once again powerless to help. Useless. The _heart_ of the clan, and he couldn't even do his job. If he was a heart, he was a broken one, and not even Donnie's diligent fingers and quick-drying modeling glue could fix him. But, broken or not, he attempted smiles when he could afford it. For them. For his family. For Raphael. For the human girl he couldn't save. And maybe, a little for himself.

It was a tragedy.

Everyone was doing their own thing, trying to get by, wrestle their demons, and keep faith that their family would be made whole again. Someday.

Though no one would say it aloud, they were all beginning to wonder if Raphael was still okay, if he was captured, or even if he was still alive.

Leo had, a number of times, tried to assure his family that Raph had to be alright... because his spirit was still intact.

But the doubts were still there, if unspoken. That is, until that NEWS report- the interview with the scantily-clad woman that described her savior: _"And, oh my God! I didn't get a good look at his hands, but I think he only had three fingers! And he was holding these weird fork-things!"_

A family meeting of sorts had been called, and the turtles all occupied the area that served as their living room.

Don's eyes narrowed in determination but his mouth quirked into an odd smile as he regarded the television. "At least we know Raphael is well enough. If he's still patrolling the streets of New York, we have to come across him eventually. There's only so many places he could be..."

Leo nodded and slumped down on the couch next to Don, a respective gap between them. "He's alive, I told you. I just... need to reach his spirit."

Mikey stood between the other turtles and the TV; he placed his hands on his hips and leaned forward, scowling. "Don't you guys see what's going on? Just... take a sec and think about it. We're falling apart. Not just because Raph is gone, but because we're _letting_ ourselves fall away from each other. We almost never do anything together anymore. We don't eat together; we don't patrol together- unless you count what Donnie does- and we just... We don't even train! I actually _miss_ training! I miss sparring. We used to have fun, and now... we probably don't even function like a team anymore. Losing Raph is one thing, but now... it's like no one's even trying to be a family. All we have is each other; if we lose that... then...-" He trailed off, letting his lack of continuance give his brothers a chance to draw their own conclusions, dredge up their own horrific possibilities.

Don looked away and processed what his youngest brother was saying; the sincerity in his brother's words was exceptionally lucid.

Leo, on the other hand, kept his gaze fixed directly on the orange-banded turtle. "You're right," he said simply. "We need to make time for each other. We need to regroup. We need to come together and reclaim what we've lost. As a family and a team. But first, we need a plan..."

Hearing that, Don quickly focused on his oldest brother and his eyes glimmered with hope. This was the first time in a while the blue-banded ninja had suggested something outside the spirit world. "A plan? _That_ , Leo, is the most intelligent thing you've said in weeks, possibly months." He exchanged a brief glance with Michelangelo before returning his attention to Leo. "Make no mistake, Leo; we appreciate that you were trying to be a better brother, but we still need a leader."

Mikey nodded quickly and approached the sofa; he took a seat, squeezing himself between his brothers and slipping an arm around each of them, pulling them close in a three-way half-hug. "We sure do need a leader! And we need our genius brother too! We need each other!"

Leo smiled kindly, the gears in his head spinning, trying earnestly to concoct a workable plan that would aid the search-and-retrieval of Raphael.

Don drew in a breath before adding: "Don't forget, we need the heart too, Mikey. We need all of us, together."

Suddenly, Leo pulled away from his brothers and fixed them with an intense steely-eyed gaze. His expression was stern, a hinted warning. "Be careful with this line of thinking, bros. I don't want anyone pressuring each other into-"

"It's alright, Leo," Don interrupted. "We know. Probably better than you. We know that Raph felt pressured into his role, and we won't force it on him... But I know my place, and I'm alright with it."

"Me too!" Mikey piped up, grinning widely. "But if it means bringing Raph home, I'll be whoever I have to! I'll be anyone from Scarface to Mary Poppins! But first- Leo, do the leader-thing! Make a plan! Lead the way!" He punched a fist into the air to show his enthusiasm.

Leo nodded and began to contemplate. After a moment or two, he spoke up. "Alright, I think I've got something. We know Raph is still in New York, which is good. We know he's still taking down criminals. Don, I need you to work your computer magic. Start paying close attention to criminal activities, locations, and how they're dealt with; it might clue us in. Mikey, you and Splinter can keep an eye on the NEWS for anything helpful- like that interview you found. In my spare time, I'll either meditate or help where I can be of use. At night, we'll patrol and search. We're a family. We need to act like it. That's the only way we can even hope to bring Raphael home. No more segregation among us turtles."

Michelangelo wiggled his butt in his seat in anticipation, hope suddenly skyrocketing at hearing Leo's preachy leader-voice. "All for one, and one for all, right?"

Don was smiling softly, true calmness washing over him as he nodded and, for the first time in far too long, he couldn't wait to get in front of his computer; his fingers twitched with muscle-memory.

There was hope. There was faith. There was determination. And now, there was a plan.

Leo summed it up with one last sentence. "No turtle gets left behind."


	33. Ch 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: This picks up with Raphael. And I defend Raphael's later immature comments by reminding readers that he IS a teenager. And he's TRYING to be irritating. Plus, it was a fun scene to write.

**CH 32**

* * *

_[Foot Central]_

The infirmary, with it's white-white walls, so pristine, unblemished, immaculate. Even after it had been regularly lived in by the same single occupant for a lengthy period of time, it still retained the scent of disinfectant. That hospital smell, minus the added aroma of sickness. Despite the initial discomfort that could be drawn from the scent, Raphael had gotten used to it. He subconsciously drew in the anti-bacterial pungency and associated it with residential possession.

He still acknowledged that the room was entitled: _Infirmary_ , but in an almost wordless sense, he'd claimed it as something personal- in the way that humans can be lent something, have that something for so long, and eventually refer to it as their own- as if they've forgotten its origin. There is no thought to it; it simply happens. It is not a tempt at theft, nor is it an abolition of who said item belongs to. It is simply a misplaced ideal that warps and weaves itself into one's brain.

A distorted thought with equally distorted values.

In a sense, the infirmary had become Raphael's room. There were no posters tacked to the walls. There was no stack of magazines. There were no weights, collective junk with varying worth, or... anything that would hint at the occupant's personality or preferences or hobbies, unless you count the notebooks...

But Raphael would just as soon forget about those spiral-edged books. If he didn't need to think about them, he wouldn't. Those books were cages for his demons, and the less time he spent with them, the better.

He stashed them habitually beneath the bed. There were only a couple, and he hadn't written in them in a while, but he liked knowing where they were, knowing that he could avoid it if he chose to do so. He liked having it beneath him rather than above him, surrounding him, suffocating him, closing in... The very idea left him feeling unsettled, and he briefly considered claustrophobia, but he pushed the thought aside.

He didn't mind closed-in spaces, not really. His own room- the infirmary- its door was shut more often than not, and he never felt too closed in. Hell, even the too-white walls weren't too much of an issue anymore.

The room was as bland as ever, but at least it was constant, static. The room was mostly empty, save for the turtle's bed, heat lamp, an outdated stereo that he never bothered to mess with, a few medical tools and doohickeys (not necessarily _his_ ; they were simply there. Furniture. Part of the scenery. Something to look at when the white walls made him nauseous.); then there was a plastic cup at the sink, along with the little planner full of pills that he ventured to routinely, and of course... Raphael's gear was scattered along the counter.

That gear, it was all so different from the red mask and brown leather belt and pads he once wore.

A new respirator. Shin guards and bracers. His spiked shoulder armor. His RTG heat-belt. His fully-stocked utility straps. His newly-upgraded headset. New elbow and knee pads of coiled metal and black leather. And now... a helmet.

The array of protective-wear was getting rather extensive and, while he appreciated it, it was always a relief to strip down for a bit of rest, regardless of how fitful that rest might be.

That night, as he lay in bed beneath the inviting warmth of the UVB rays coming from the lamp, he found himself once again drifting off. His mind slipped away and he found himself once again staring at paper walls that had become entirely too familiar.

The dome, even while torn enough to allow him a view of the sky, still seemed too much like a prison to him. As far as he knew, it was inescapable. The paper walls were as cold and strong as any steel.

The turtle's spiritual self was undoubtedly tired of the scenery, yet he was beyond kvetching.

Unlike usual, there was no power struggle with thought or contempt or worry. There was just himself, his name, and that hole that called to him. The same hole that recently had a forest-green hand reaching toward him, but now... it was empty. Whereas last time, he could hear a familiar voice calling to him, speaking words of comfort, now he could hear nothing.

He found himself futilely reaching towards the opening, hoping that hand would come back and touch his, pull him through.

But as time passed and no hand or voice came, he realized all to plainly that he was alone.

Confused at the anomaly, he looked to his crudely scripted name for guidance, but there was no solace to be had. In fact, the longer he stared at the red letters, the lighter and less prominent that script seemed to be.

Could it be a trick of the light? A play at his imagination? Or... was it _fading_? In this impossible world of vibrant colors, red skies, and plumes of cosmic radiation, was it possible that his blood-stained name had begun to fade like an ordinary ink?

Was time a genuine factor in this place? Somehow, he doubted it.

Curiously, Raphael traced his fingers over his name, one line at a time.

_R. A. P. H._

He stopped after the _H_ despite the instinctive desire to complete the word, his hand falling to rest at his side. He kept his gaze trained on the letters.

It didn't make sense to him. Something was missing. And he couldn't fathom what it was. And if he were to be truly honest, he was tired of trying to figure things out.

Things could be so easy, if he would allow it. But he'd never taken the easy route- not intentionally. Apart from his flight-tendencies, he never considered an 'easy way' to be an option. Simplicity was scarce enough in the life of a mutant, let alone a mutant ninja.

But the idea was there. The thought. The temptation. If presented with an all-encompassing solution that was decidedly easy, could he take it?

Should he?

Was it really okay? In a life that had always been wrought with difficult lessons and decisions, was the term _easy_ something the turtle could understand in context? Or was the meaning of the word just as elusive as the long-winded babble that often went in one ear slit and out the other without process?

It was too trivial. His mind, heart, and soul was already stretched too thin. And he was tired of trying.

Tired. Exhausted. Downtrodden.

He fell to his knees. His head rolled, chin lifted, gaze traveling to that ripped hole to peer at the impossible skies above, as if an answer lay just beyond. Just out of reach. Just a little too far for him to grasp.

After a moment, he dropped his gaze.

He was tired; he felt as if he'd been trying for an eternity, and he wasn't even sure what he was trying for anymore.

Trying to understand himself? Trying to save his brothers from grief? Trying to assure his place in the world? Trying to run from a questionable evil? Trying to just... make it through?

It was too much. Too confusing. He was running a race with no finish line.

There could be no end, so there was no point in participating.

So, he stopped trying. As far as he knew, everything was fine. There was no need to strain himself over trivial matters. Not when he could just... let go. Ignore the obvious and just... accept everything for what it was.

And so, that's exactly what he did.

Acceptance allowed his mind to rest. And with that rest, he found a sense of quiet peace, foreign but welcome.

...

* * *

Morning came. Raphael awoke feeling surprisingly well rested. He kicked off the blankets and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He turned the lamp off and got to his feet. He took a moment to fix his blankets, tuck the corners in and make his bed.

One more task, complete.

Then, heading over to the counter, he considered his gear. He acquired his radioactive belt- his sais in their slots- and put it on. After having worn it so many times, he could almost tell exactly when the reactors registered his naturally cool body temperature and began to generate warmth. He focused on the feeling of spreading heat until it became almost natural.

Then he allowed his gaze to sweep over the entirety of his equipment before resting solely on the helmet. He didn't understand the lure, but he was inexplicably drawn to it. It was just a trophy, taken from a crook on a whim. But it fit, and it felt right when he had worn it. After several long seconds of aimless contemplation, he tore himself away from the counter and over to the sink.

He filled his plastic cup with water and sought his pill planner. He flipped the AM tab and... rather than the 8 pills he usually took, there was 14. He curiously noted the difference before shrugging it off, tossing the handful of pills into his mouth and chasing them with water. Then he replaced the cup and turned towards the door. He didn't need a clock to tell him the time. He didn't need a reminder to meet up with his human-master for an important discussion.

With only his own circadian rhythm tattling the time and urging him to start his day, he made his way to the door, pulled it open, and stepped out into the hall.

He half expected to see Shredder waiting for him, as he did often enough, but instead he was greeted by little more than the sound of muttering coming from the opposite direction.

Raphael had every intention on ignoring the soft voices in favor of meeting up with Shredder like he was supposed to, but a thump and a startled yelp pilfered his attention. Without a second thought, he tore down the hall toward the source of commotion.

The scene he happened upon was unexpected; it confused him, caused him to halt in his tracks and stare dumbly as he tried to process what he was transpiring before his eyes.

Several Foot ninja, all masked, were huddled close with a single Foot on the floor and encircled by them. The one on the floor was curled up in defense, breath labored as the others took turns kicking.

Whatever was going on, there was no mercy. No tact. This was no friendly spar, nor a fair fight. This was unjustified brutality.

After a small eternity, something in Raph's brain clicked and his vision blurred at the edges. He pressed a hand to his head and reigned in his focus, refusing to let his natural aggression control him. He drew in a deep breath and assured his self-possession before making a conscious decision to act.

He rushed in, slamming a shoulder into one ninja and an elbow into another. He kicked the feet out from under a particularly tall teen and followed it up with a roundhouse kick to whoever was in range. He planted his feet solidly and clenched his fists in warning, teeth bared. "What the fuck d'ya think yer doin'?!" he ground out. He could feel anger burning through him like wildfire.

No one answered his question. Instead, the small group of ninja collected themselves and slowly began to back up, leaving their victim unattended.

"Answer me, dammit," Raph growled. "What d'ya think yer doin'? Ya can't- You don't just beat on people fer no good reason!" He pulled his fist back, ready to strike, but he stopped upon hearing a choked sound coming from the individual who'd been previously attacked by alleged comrades. Glaring at the other Foot, Raph hissed: "Get outta my sight before I shove my sai down yer throats." The threat made, he watched them retreat before reaching a hand towards the fallen ninja... only to have his hand batted away.

The black-clad teen slowly helped himself up, one arm wrapped around his middle and the other moving to the hem of his mask; he rolled the mask up enough to expose the lower half of his face as he drew in heaping breaths. After only a few gasps, he started to choke and cough and bloody spittle flew from his mouth.

Raph watched with an expression of concern, and that concern only deepened when realization struck a chord within. "...Gunner? What the fuck is goin' on?" Without warning, he reached over and roughly ripped the mask off the teen's head, revealing a familiar face that was usually less swollen and mottled with bruises and welts. "Why ya lettin' them losers beat on ya?"

Gunner scowled, but the expression was pitiable with the busted lip and blackened eyes. He winced with the slight contortion and snatched his mask from the turtle's hand. "Don't worry about it. Okay? It's not your problem."

"It kinda is, Gunner. You're one of my Footies. We're bros, right? We-"

"You're... a mutant. A freak. Okay? I'm a human. Just because we're lumped together here, doesn't make us bros."

Raph set his jaw tight and narrowed his eyes. Any worry or sympathy he had felt was gone in an instant. "So, ya really feel that way, or did them assholes beat those thoughts inta yer head? Because, I gotta say, usin' _that_ F-word makes me wanna bust yer head myself."

Gunner was quiet for a moment, pensive. Then, he took on a pained expression that went beyond physical distress as he whispered a hurried confession. "Your name, it's Taboo here. Everyone is calling you _Freak_. I tried to tell them to stop, and... well, you saw what they did!" The volume of Gunner's voice increased as he spoke. "It's wrong. You're supposed to be one of us. We're all outcasts here. You don't need to be singled out among us. Central is supposed to be a home and haven to people like us..." Gunner grabbed one of Raph's hands between both of his own, squeezing in a manner that suggested urgency. He held the mutant's hand firmly, refusing to let go. His own eyes bore into Raphael's as if trying to convey some hidden meaning. Something important that he couldn't say... Then, as if nothing had happened, he pulled away, backpedaled a few steps and forced a grin. His teeth were lined with blood but he chuckled with feigned humor. "Whatcha gonna do, right? It's life. I, uh, gotta brush up on some studying. School, y'know? Might go to the mall later too. I'll, uh, see ya later. Maybe." He made an awkward breathy sound, then turned and briskly walked down the hall, taking the first left turn available and leaving Raph gawking in confusion.

"Gunner, wait-" he started belatedly, but the sharp voice of another cut him off.

"Raphael," the Shredder's voice commanded the reptilian teen's attention and he turned to face the unarmored human who once again sported the awful duck-themed robe and quacking slippers. "You were taking longer than I expected, so I came to retrieve you. Please, come with me."

Raph hesitated, tempted to turn back and go after the rookie Foot, until-

"Now, Raphael. Do not keep me waiting." The assertive tone left no room for disobedience.

Still partly reluctant, the turtle followed after, brain muddled and thoughts corrupting before any semblance of understanding could form.

The trek was unusually quiet with only Gunner's misshapen face and tone of voice echoing in Raph's mind. He wasn't sure how to feel about it. Angry? Yeah. Pissed? Definitely. Confused? More than he'd like to admit. But... there was something else there, something underlying and indistinguishable.

Before Raph knew it, he was sitting at a familiar marble table across from the human he called master. This part was normal. What wasn't normal was the absence of the banquet and the servants that usually asked their choice of beverage; instead, between them rested a checkered board, upon which were 32 wooden pieces- elegant with just enough imperfections to show that they were carved by hand.

"Do you fancy a game of chess, Raphael?" the human queried.

Raph stared blankly at the board and pieces. Then he shrugged. "Never played," he confessed

The human grinned, perfect teeth glinting in the artificial light. "I'll teach you. That is what a master does for his pupil, right? He teaches. And a pupil learns, just as a son learns from his father, correct?" The words, bait. With this sort of converse, he was creeping into familiar territory. "Let's start with the basics. The object of the game is to capture your opponent's king, or at least put him in a position in which he cannot win; all the while, you must protect your own king." He pointed the to the king.

Raph picked up his own king. "So, the one with the funny hat is the king?" he deadpanned. It was too early for him to force his brain to understand Gunner's situation _and_ listen to jargon about fancy board games.

Heedless to Raphael's plight, Shredder continued. "The king can go anywhere, after all, he is the king. Without him, there is no kingdom. However, he can only move a single space at a time."

"Gotcha. The king is an egotistical douchebag with limited mobility," Raph commented, setting his king back on the board and shifting to get more comfortably in his chair.

Shredder next pointed to the queen. "This is the queen. While she is not the most vital piece on the board, she is certainly the most powerful. She can move however far she wants, in any direction."

"Sooo, she's a bitch."

"Raphael, language."

If Raph heard the scold, he paid no heed. He picked up his own queen and looked it over. "Mine's broken," he said with a frown.

Shredder reached over and snatched the piece for himself to take a look. "No it isn't..."

"Yeah-huh," Raph insisted. "She's the queen, but she doesn't have any... uh..." he trailed off, cupping his hands and moving them in front of the bisected pectorals of his plastron, palms facing his chest. "My queen ain't got any... boobs," he stated bluntly, dropping his hands after a moment. "She ain't even an A-cup."

The human sighed loudly and set Raph's queen in its proper place. _'It's going to be a long morning...'_ "This is the bishop."

"Bishop?" Raph interjected. He snatched up both bishops from the board, held them in his hands and lightly ran his thumbs over the small perky nubs on top. "...These look kinda like boobs," he said thoughtfully.

The five-fingered male face-palmed. "I was unaware that you had a libido, Raphael. Now is not the time to display-"

Raph set his pieces back. "I'm gonna call the little boob-guys ' _scientists_ '," he declared. "Because Bishop was a scientist, and these guys are bishops."

Shredder fought to hold back pending comments. This morning wasn't going quite as planned. It was supposed to be a five-minute discussion and a High-Stakes version of Chess. Still, he drew in a deep calming breath and proceeded. "This is the knight."

"-You forgot to tell me that the scientist moves diagonally."

Shredder nodded. "You are correct. The bishop moves-" he paused, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "How did you know that the bishop moves diagonally?"

Raph smirked and leaned forward in an antagonizing manner. "I said I ain't never played chess. Doesn't mean I don't know the rules. I've watched my br- uh, the other reptiles play."

"Then why-? -Oh, nevermind. Raphael, just make your first move."

"But, Soupy, my color is black. White goes first in chess. Go ahead and move your soldier (pawn) to C3, or your horsey (knight) to-"

The human huffed in exasperation and made his first move. He had a feeling it was going to be a long and tiresome game. But, before the mutant could make his own opening move, he allowed a cynical smirk to warp his features before speaking up with intrigue. "Since you seem to know what you are doing, Raphael, why don't we make it interesting?"

"I'm listenin'..."

"For every piece you take, you get to either insult or ask a question, and your opponent either has to take the insult without complaint, or answer the question with complete honesty."

Raphael didn't look too enthused. "That's it?"

"And the winner will be able to make a single demand that must be obliged without question," Shredder quickly added.

Raphael still failed to look impressed. "Don'tcha already kinda have that ability? Can't ya just assign me somethin' whenever? Yer the boss-man. You're my master, right? My sensei, my mentor, my fath-"

"Yes, but even I can't make you do anything. You have freewill, Raphael. I have never made you breech ethics on my account, have I? You've always had a choice... If I win, that will change for a single task. If you win, you will have perfect authority to demand something from me, and I will not refute. Consider the possibilities..."

And Raphael did think about it. And think about it. And think about it. He remained silent and emotionless as he turned the possibilities around in his head.

Minutes passed.

The human grew restless, planting his hands on the table and leaning forward. And just when he was about to speak up and demand an answer...

Raph chose that exact moment to answer, to steal his human-master's thunder. To disarm him. "Alright. But when I win, I won't show no mercy on ya; I know what I want." He moved his first piece.

Shredder moved next. "I expect nothing less."

Then Raph. "I've learned from the best, pops."

"Did you now? Raphael, I am most flattered."

"Don't be. I never said I learned from you."

The exchange of moves and words went back and forth, neither pausing for a second. Each seemed to be plotting their own course and trying to anticipate that of their opponent. Whatever stress had been bred unto either player faded away soon enough, and both were fairly relaxed, despite the stakes.

Then... "My knight claims your bishop. I choose to ask a question. What would it take for you to part with your choice weapons?"

Raph snorted. "My sais? Nothin'. 'Cause it ain't happening." Raph grabbed his pawn and moved it diagonally. "My soldier captures your bitch." (pawn takes queen) "Ya sure ain't too bright. Now, I've got a question fer ya. What the fuck's goin' on with the Foot?"

"My foot?" Shredder jested. "I believe it's called a bunion, and-"

"The Foot, dumbass. The Foot. Y'know, as in the _Foot clan_. All the ninja around here. They were beatin' up on G- uh, one of the rookies this mornin'. And I wanna know why."

"Hazing?"

"If yer not gonna follow the rules and answer truthfully, then-"

"Your rookie friend broke a rule. He was being punished. I claimed your name, did I not? He used it; therefore, he was punished. It is as simple as that."

"That's bullshit, and you know it. Soupy, yer better than this. Don't act like a vindictive prick."

"Raphael, save the insults for the next piece you capture." Shredder glanced at the board and smirked. "Well, maybe next game?" He moved his rook across the board before declaring "Checkmate."

Raph blinked and looked at the board with a quizzical expression. "Nuh-uh."

"Yes-huh, Raphael. Look at your king."

"Nuh-uh," the turtle persisted, narrowing his eyes and continuing to scan the board. Then, to prove a point, he made his move. "It's called ' _castling_.' It's when, if the douchebag (king) and at least one castle (rook) haven't made a move yet, and if there are no pieces between 'em, they can switch places. It's in the rules. Look it up." He rolled his eyes. "Fuck, I'm a brother to a genius. Don't ya think Donatello played chess? When he first learned, he just kept yammerin' on and on about it."

Shredder thoughtfully drummed his fingers against the table. "I suppose I was hasty to assume that your knowledge of the game was less... thorough, and I surmised that you would lack awareness of that move. My apologies for underestimating you." With a soft hum, he made his own move.

The exchange continued.

Back and forth.

Questions and answers presiding over insults.

Minutes became nearly two hours and both players were losing patience.

Raph had both elbows planted on the table, his cheek resting in one palm while his other hand worked the pieces from square to square. "Finish dis before I flip the board."

"Flipping the board results in forfeit."

"Forfeit this, Soupy. This is how it's gonna play out. Scientist takes yer soldier. Your soldier takes my soldier. Scientist moves to that square there. You're put in check. That's the only move that pulls you out of check. My move. Your move. My move. Then you move here. And then-then... Then I'm check-mated." Raph dropped his head to the table hard enough to shake the board and allow a few pieces to fall over. "I'm done here. I'm tired and hungry, and I just want-"

"You lost, Raphael."

"So?"

"So, I am allowed to ask a limitless task of you," Shredder spoke calmly, but his eyes gleamed with malicious intent. "I want you to acquire an item."

Raph's head never left the table. He groaned loudly. "Ugh, not dis again. That's all ya want from me. Steal this. Get that. It's a little boring. The novelty has worn off."

"But, Raphael, you didn't hear what I am asking."

The turtle slowly inclined his head, eyes contacting that of his master's. "Ya want me ta steal somethin'."

"I want you to get me a gift."

Raph's browline creased at that. "A gift? Father's Day is a long ways away..." he grumbled.

"I want a sword, Raphael."

"Ain't ya got enough of those?"

"Yes, but I only want one. More specifically, I want a single katana from the one called Leonardo."


	34. Ch 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: Short chapter. I confess, the culprit for my decreased writing is a combination of bro-time and videogames. Updates will likely come slower. The next chapter is In-Progress of being written.

**CH 33**

* * *

_"-I want a single katana from the one called Leonardo."_

The chess match had been followed by a breakfast consisting of Vanilla Almond cereal for both the human-master and his mutant-disciple.

The turtle's head had been too full of conflict for him to appreciate the taste or texture of the food on its journey from the bowl to his stomach. After eating, he'd been offered a couple shots of bourbon and he accepted them gratefully despite how the bitterness contrasted the sweet grains and milk he had prior.

Breakfast had been hours ago.

Now, Raphael slammed his fist into the leather-bound punching bag and watched with satisfaction as the weighted form reeled, astern, jostled from its fix. When it countered from the backlash, he caught it between both hands and steadied it once more, breathing heavily. Sweat fell from him in rivulets, glistening against his taut emerald skin. He'd been at this for a while, and before that he lifted weights; and before that, he'd caught himself in an intense sparring session with an Elite and two Techs.

A bout of necessity had pulled him into physical activity; adrenaline and willpower kept him going long after he felt the war of fatigue.

His body ached and burned from over-exertion, but he wasn't done; he couldn't be. He needed to work his body until it was sore enough to override the thoughts that took up residence in his mind. More specifically, the fact that his human-master expected him to acquire a katana from Leonardo. The very idea was full of implication and duplicity.

He couldn't refuse, and he had no idea how to proceed.

He knew he should buckle down and try to work out some course of action, but right now, he didn't want to think at all. Thinking brought conflict and emotional strain. Thinking called forth memories and assumed obligations. Thinking brought disaster and grief and pain that manifested into poorly concealed rage.

And that rage he felt, if he were to be honest with himself, it felt pretty damn good. It tore through him with every lash at the punching bag. Every kick delivered. It jarred his insides and begged for release. Begged for action. For the swelling of his knuckles and the pulling of his muscles and joints.

It begged his body to keep going, in spite of the burning soreness than proved his strain.

He needed to keep active. To keep fighting. To fight against everything, and to fight for something.

He couldn't stop.

He didn't want to.

The world was his enemy, and he was its hostage.

It was no wonder, he felt so hostile. Violence would be the driving force behind his release. His escape. His mounting frustrations be damned, he wanted to maim and destroy the external forces until his internal pressures became little more than a figment.

Abruptly pulling away from the bag, Raph moved to a large open space. He closed his eyes and allowed his vivid imagination to conjure up faceless enemies. And he moved. To attack. To defend. To counter, feint, deflect, punch. To roundhouse and scissor kick. To uppercut and left-hook. In his mind he saw blurred figures coming at him, surrounding him, launching attacks.

And in his very real world, he attacked back.

Jabs and low-sweeping kicks. High kicks and right-cross punches. Everything he knew, he poured it into his imaginary fight.

Against everyone and no one, he was winning. He would be the victor. He would have the reward, the praise, the trophy.

He drew his sais.

He would have the glory. There was no pain, physical or otherwise. There was no dull ache within him. There was no worry for his pending task and obligations. There was just himself and the fight, and he would dominate at any cost.

His tri-bladed weapons sharp and primed, he slashed and stabbed and moved to counter imaginary attacks, never once opening his eyes. Never needing to. His keen senses assured him of his surroundings as he paced back with two back flips before lashing out again.

He imagined taking a foe down, a sai poised over a throat, ready to stab.

And he considered it.

The tip of a blade was inches from the imaginary column of flesh.

So close to ending a life. So close. And he wasn't even sorry. Wasn't even worried. He could do it. It wasn't real. Wasn't real. Wasn't real.

Victory was close.

So close.

He could do it.

Trophy... Another trophy.

Glory.

Praise.

Success.

He could do it. He was worthy, as a ninja, as a fighter, and as a student to his master.

And... he stabbed, hard.

In his mind, the throat of his foe suddenly appeared less blurred, more clear, articulate. In fact, it morphed into something green and leathery as blood began to well up in the wound. That throat, not human. Green. Forest green. Belonging to a turtle. With a blue mask...

Raphael jerked back, eyes snapping open, wide and panicked. His breath came in heaping gasps as he glanced towards his empty hands that trembled. He turned to look where his dying foe would have been, but there was no one there. Nothing. Empty space. Instead, his sai was planted firmly in the mat on the floor.

There was no enemy. No reptile. No blood. Just himself in the empty room. Himself and his inner demons. He'd gotten lost in his head, lost in his imaginary fight. Lost in his future goal.

And lost in the complete understanding that he didn't want to harm any of the other turtles.

 _'What the fuck am I gonna do? How can I get a sword from Leonardo? How can I do it without fightin' him? Fuck, fuck, fuck. What if I hurt him? What if-'_ He couldn't finish the thought. It hurt too much. He just wanted his thoughts to go away.

He needed those thoughts to be gone. Gone, gone, gone. He shoved his palms against his temples and pressed hard, gradually increasing pressure as he tried to force away his thoughts, to no avail. After several fruitless seconds, he dropped his hands and knelt on the mat, breathing. Hard.

Breathing deep.

Just... breathing for the sake of breathing.

He was panting; he grudgingly allowed his eyes to slip closed as he worked to calm himself. He systematically evened out his respiration and blanked his expression; he only wished he could blank his mind as well, but his efforts proved futile.

He'd tried to think the situation through, tried to imagine how the confrontation might go... but no image he could conjure seemed right. He imagined lectures and scorn. He imagined care and concern. He imagined hurt and betrayal and anger. Regardless of what emotions were displayed and what words might be passed, Raphael's ultimate vision always entailed a fight that his mind never finished- most likely because he hated to lose and he didn't want to conquer Leonardo under these conditions.

It seemed wrong.

 _'If I can just disarm him...'_ Raph's thoughts were finally working towards something less violent when they were interrupted by a sharp voice.

"Hey, Mutant. Master Shredder wants to see you in his Throne Room."


	35. Ch 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH 34**

* * *

It was oddly quiet. Too quiet. Of course, ninja were supposed to be stealthy and silent by default, but even Central wasn't known for _this_ degree of audible restraint. Contrary to what one might think, Central was often just as alive as any other place that might be bustling with teenagers and young adults. Usually, conversations drifted from room to room, bits of information and gossip, a joke or two.

Laughter and tears and everything in between was the unfolding norm as the young Footies would dote on one another in a brotherly fashion. Because, ninja or not, they lived together. They fought together. And one day, hopefully in a far off future that they rarely dared to dwell upon, they would die together, for one another. Caught up in some cosmic and magnetic pull that kept them honor-bound.

This was their life. The life of many amateur martial artists from varying backgrounds. Hidden histories. Different schools. Different friends, cliques, crowds. People who would never publicly associate with one another under any other circumstance, all brought together and united under a single master.

In Foot Central, a gamer who excelled in advanced calculus could easily be on par with a Varsity jock who flunked basic Algebra. Wearing the common black threads, donning the familiar bandana with the Foot insignia, two polar opposites could find equality and camaraderie.

Brotherhood.

One minute, perhaps they're walking away from school, purposefully going separate ways. The next minute, they're meeting up at a predetermined location to relay messages about pending Foot activity.

A charity event. Cleaning up litter and recycling. A smuggling operation. Feigning ignorance over human trafficking... It wasn't all good, nor was it all bad, but after a while... it was all the same.

A law was a law, and if one was worth breaking, so were the rest. It was something understood. If their activity would aid their imaginary cause or please their master, they did it without question. If they failed, they paid the price.

The Foot clan was almost like an after school program, but more dangerous. More fantastic. More adventurous. More purposeful. While some people gathered to play baseball or discuss literature, others gathered to hone their martial arts or plan a raid.

The Foot had it all. The work, the reward, the risk, and the secrecy. The cunning of con artist and the pride of a police officer. The ethics of the middle-class and the goals of a realist. All functioning together under the jurisdiction of the pragmatic sort.

These outcasts- cast out of society's norm for whatever reason- found sanctity at Central. And among these outcasts, a particular emerald-skinned mutant found himself at ease. Hidden along the fringes of society, among the shadows. Alongside countless others.

This was Raphael's stead.

For once in his life, he fit in among the masses; he was not the reject of society. His words were heard and his work was praised.

He _felt_ as if he mattered. His actions directly affected those around him. He didn't have to hide who or what he was. The Foot looked to him as a comrade and a superior, depending. And his master doted on him with pride and expectations.

At times, those expectations had a tendency to be overbearing, but after mulling it over, Raph decided that he preferred it- the assiduity, as opposed to ignorance or disparagement.

He recalled with contempt how often his former rat-master would cast that disapproving and distrustful glare. He recalled the words of dismay. He recalled the punishments. The flips, how humiliating they were. The revoked privileges...

The mere memory could cause Raphael to seethe with a burning hatred he never thought would be directed at his paternal figure... but the rat was not his father. The rat had been too focused on favoratism to be an effective mentor. And despite the years Raph had spent with the rodent, the rogue turtle couldn't call forth any fond memories of him.

Had he any, they'd been snuffed out by time, stewed despair, and degradation.

The appearance, and even the smell of Splinter was something Raphael could recall easily enough, and it made him ill. How he loathed the memory of that voice, the sight of that lashing tail and those twitching whiskers... His stomach knotted and his teeth clenched. A deep emotion- something strong, akin to agony buried itself within him, and he felt only contempt for the rat.

At some point, though he'd never speak of it, nor would he write it down, a strange fantasy entered the turtle's thoughts.

His hands. A fur-coated mutant body. That acrid odor of _rodent_ and sewer... intertwining with that of decay and copper. His fantasy, vivid as any, centered around slaying the animal that scolded him for false allegations.

Of course, after the fantasy had played out in his head, there was an overwhelming sense of guilt for having said thoughts, but he always managed to quell the grief. Pushed it down, deep, to deal with them another day. A day that would never come, if he had anything to say about it.

It's funny, how drastically things can distort and alter when something as simple as environment changes.

Only months ago, Raphael would have proudly fought and given his life to protect the hairy mutant. He would have cared or his opinion. Would have given the world for a hint of approval from him. And now, he couldn't care less.

Though, he admittedly missed the other turtles, whom he struggled to claim as family. He had weak moments when he toyed with the idea of going home. He imagined their warm greetings, despite the fact that he'd act moody and indifferent. He imagined gathering in the kitchen for a meal. Michelangelo would have cooked up something crazy that would either be fantastic... or disgustingly inedible. Some days, it was a tossup. Then, after idle conversations that held no strain, they'd retire in front of the TV for games and movies.

The four of them, united, like some great tale as old as time.

It was a nice thought. It was something he deeply missed and wanted. An idea he cherished more than he'd ever admit. It was something he'd taken for granted. But every time he considered locating his brothers or making a beeline for the nearest manhole, he was always slammed back into reality when he recalled his missing mask.

Gone was the red fabric that he once held dear.

And, instead of that, he bore the Foot insignia, usually in the form of a bandana or scarf...

He used to avoid mirrors because he hated seeing a monster staring back at him, but at least his old reflection was something familiar. Whatever he glanced at when he passed a reflective surface now, it wasn't recognizable. His expression, far more cynical than it ever had been. His eyes, too narrow. His face, maskless. Even his body-shape, the proportions had changed; his legs were thick and powerful as ever, but his upper body held an unbelievable hulking mass that promised destruction if his energy wasn't given a proper outlet.

He often worked hard, harder than he ever had before, trying to burn himself out, push himself harder. Just... trying... to keep going until he couldn't go anymore.

No one told him to stop. No one got in his way.

And, against all prior thoughts, he wasn't sure if he liked that or not.

Still, he would not allow that to be his primary focus.

He needed a level head. His human-master, whom had yet to steer him wrong, sought his attention and compliance; diligence over delinquency.

He was wanted in the Throne room. Called forth by a someone who, for once in his life, favored him, his actions and capabilities.

Raph focused on anticipation. Part of him hungered for whatever was to come. Be it newly offered gear, some form of praise, or a relay of information for future assignments. He wanted it. Whatever it was. Whatever it would be. Because, surely, it was something he earned. Something to prove he'd done well and his achievements were worth acknowledging.

As he journeyed, Raphael's stride was carefully measured- not in the arrogant way that he sometimes strutted when he was in a good mood or feeling particularly cocky; rather, this time, he was pacing himself. Trying to move at a fair speed without rushing towards his destination.

As he walked, he kept his hands at the hilts of his sais that had been previously reinserted into their respective slots. For each new breezeway or hall he happened upon, his progression was marked by the surveillance cameras overhead.

He briefly looked into the eye of each one as he passed, knowing that someone was on the other side. Someone was watching him. This fact seldom bothered the turtle; he'd almost grown used to being part of some unscreened documentary.

 _'A Day in the Life of a Mutant Turtle. -Oh and that turtle happens to be a Ninja who denied his original master and sided with the enemy...'_ So, maybe the plot wasn't original, but that hardly mattered. Raphael wasn't exactly a cinematic connoisseur. _'Heh, as if anyone would pay ta see a movie 'bout a mutated turtle that talks and does heroic ninja-stuff. Sounds stupid. But it might make a half-decent animated series... Or comics. Might be a better comic. Yeah... Definitely a comic. I could see that.'_

Raph found himself chuckling at his musings. It was ridiculous. But it was just the right kind of ridiculous that made him think it could be done. It would just have to be done right. Delivered a certain way and directed at the right audience.

But it was impossible. Too few people knew that mutants existed, let alone were willing to make it into a profitable franchise. But the idea was there...

Raphael's light-hearted thoughts were fleeting, leaving the moment he stepped inside the elevator. He folded his arms over his plastron in time to watch the doors slide closed. Almost as an afterthought, he reached out towards the vertical panel of buttons, ready to select the top floor, but before his large green finger ever made contact, the button lit up on its own and the elevator proceeded to rise.

In the roomy elevator, he suddenly felt closed-in. And he loathed that feeling. Feeling trapped. Feeling stuck. It made him long for open spaces and cool night air.

For a moment, he was anxious for the dark hours that would grant him access to the city.

Rooftops and alleyways, they called for him in ways he couldn't describe. A haunting lullaby. A siren's song.

With a snort of derision, Raph managed to pull away from his thoughts and look around.

With disinterest, he noted a Ficus that had been freshly potted; the soil that held it was moist. He couldn't help breathing deeply through his nose and taking in that earthy scent, however faint. He stared at the plant for an unnecessary amount of time, until the sight of it grew stale and he rocked back on the balls of his feet before correcting his balance and curling his toes.

His gaze traveled downwards to look at the fibers beneath his feet. The soft woven carpet with a monochromatic color scheme to go with the pattern of diamonds.

Raphael almost felt like he was standing on a large coarse sweater vest.

He grew bored of that acknowledgment and was just about to question the lack of classic 'elevator music' when said elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open to allow access to the highest portion of the tower.

He took a moment to draw in a breath and crack his neck before stepping into the overly posh room.

The antiques on display, the woven tapestries and oriental rugs. The priceless heirlooms and paintings. The statuettes... All leading up to the extravagant seat that cushioned the Shredder's posterior.

The young mutant too in his surroundings. Then he made his way towards the throne and stopped several feet away, dropping instinctively, kneeling before the armored human.

"I trust you know why I have summoned you, Raphael," Shredder said, speaking through the filtered grate of his mask.

Raphael allowed his gaze to meet that of the human's. "Is it about the katana?"

"Yes, but not in the way you are thinking. I believe I have made an error in assigning this task to you. It is too soon; you are not ready to face-"

Call it instinct. Call it habit. Call it anything in between, but Raphael rebelled against the nay-saying on what he was capable of doing. He moved to his feet in an instant, drawn at full height, body radiating discontent and amber eyes narrowing.. "Ya think I can't face Leonardo? Think I can't kick his shell and take his precious sword away from him?! Think I can't-"

Shredder held up his hand in a placating gesture. "Do not put words in my mouth, Raphael." His own eyes mimicked and met Raphael's heated set, oxide green warring with iridium gold. "I said nothing of the sort. I have no doubt in your potential to succeed, but I believe it would be foolish to act so soon. Your emotional wounds are too great; you are too raw." He moved his hands to his kabuto and menpo, removing both and placing them on their designated stand before getting to his feet and closing the distance between himself and the mutant. "Having an ego, Raphael, does not grant you permission to be foolish. You are working under my tutelage, and I will not allow you to fall prey to recklessness coupled with an enemy's lure. -You may be able to overpower the turtle in blue, but can you resist your former bond with him? That is my concern..."

At those words, Raphael drew in a breath and held it. He'd been wondering the same thing, but on a different level.

Indecision and insecurity equaled weakness. And as this human's heir, Raph could not afford to be weak. So, with a quick and haughty huff, he gave his response with an even tone. "He ain't even my brother. Not biologically. We were... bound... by circumstance. That's it. We were raised together. By a condescending rat who wouldn't know a good deed if it bit him in the ass." His expression soured further. "Master Shredda, ya gotta understand, it wasn't meant ta be like dis. We- them and me- we were a team... We were the good guys. We protected the city."

"Well, Raphael, what happened? What changed? Surely there is a reason you no longer call yourself a Hamato. The sooner you truly understand that reason, the sooner you can put them behind you."

Raph finally averted his eyes, gaze traveling downwards. "I... He... We..." He heaved a heavy sigh. "Leo and I were brothers, just like Don and Mike- all of us. And Splinta tried to teach us. But we were trapped."

"Trapped?" The human coaxed, tone too soft, too inviting. Too calm for the overbearing tyrant he was known to be.

If Raph detected the oddity, he showed no signs. Instead, he nodded in response. "Trapped. Together. In our own world... never ta have a chance at normalcy. We were stuck. The walls... The walls closed in. The days were too long, nights too fleetin'. Leo, too busy leadin', forgettin' how to be a brother. Don, too smart. Mikey, too fast. And me- I was nothin'. I was the one who fucked up. I was sensei's failed little project. Splinta never said that to me, but I could see it in his eyes. He tried ta fix me. Tried to teach me ta meditate', but... I ain't never been able to do that. Can't do the spiritual shit. I'm not calm and composed. I ain't fast or smart. I ain't-"

Shredder placed a hand on Raphael's shoulder. "Look at me," he said.

Raphael didn't respond, apart from shaking his head.

"Raphael, look at me," the human repeated, voice more stern. " _Now,_ " he added.

Hesitantly, Raphael looked up, his eyes meeting that of his master. "I just wanted ta belong somewhere, ta be accepted. I wanted ta be somethin' more than their own personal bulldozer. But they pushed me away. And I accepted that."

"And, what of Leonardo?" Shredder coaxed further.

Closing his eyes tightly, as if pained, Raphael took the bait and ran with it. "Leonardo pushed me, and I pushed back. We were always fightin'... He was brave. Fearless. But I was strong. And I'm even stronger now." Trying desperately to force away the onslaught of bitter feelings that threatened to devour him, Raphael released a low rumbling growl and forced his attention on something less disheartening and more threatening. Because anger was easier than regret. "If ya don't think I can take Leonardo on, yer wrong. I can take anything he can dish out. If it comes to fightin', I won't lose, Master Shredda. Ya want a sword? I'll get ya the damn sword. Scout's honor."

Shredder quirked a brow and his mouth twitched, but he hid his amusement. "Were you ever a scout, Raphael?"

The turtle shook his head. "Nope. But I keep my promises."

Shredder moved his hand from the turtle's shoulder to the carapace; his other hand moved to rest on the back of Raphael's smooth bald head; in one swift motion, he forced the mutant closer, into a mockery of a hug. Despite the gesture, there was no sentiment or comfort as he held the turtle against his metal-plated body, yet he spoke in a soft, soothing, unfiltered voice. A voice that was entirely too human to be anything but trustworthy. "Raphael, you will make me proud in your endeavors. You will succeed, in my name. For our clan's honor. For the sake of your own retribution. My son, my prodigy, my heir. You will follow in my footsteps, and the Foot will kneel before _you_."

Cold metal pressed against Raphael's cheek and plastron as he fought for an understanding that managed to elude his grasp.

Though he struggled to fully understand, the offer of reward was processed clearly enough. And it was tempting. He could have true authority and recognition. His own place in the world firmly secured. His worth, proven. His skills, acknowledged by the masses.

And all he had to do was take one sword from a former ally who berated him more often than not.

It seemed so simple. Somehow.

His master was asking so little. It was just a sword. It meant nothing.

Leonardo was just an obstacle. An opposing force that stood in the way. This was nothing new for the emerald-skinned mutant.

All he had to do... was put aside his pesky emotions. Complete a simple task.

Find victory.

Earn praise.

The very idea registered with all the simplicity of a rat working through a maze to earn cheese.

A task and a reward.

So simple.

Raphael could process that much. His brain, hard-wired to be goal-oriented. For a moment, he truly wanted that katana. His body still pressed awkwardly and uncomfortably against the metal form of his master, he didn't bother pulling away or struggling, despite his dislike for contact.

In his mind, he worked to banish regret and guilt and fear. He worked to dispatch his apprehension. He fought to empty his mind until all that was left was task and reward.

And fuck, he wanted that reward. He wanted to earn it. He deserved it. And it would be his.

Finally releasing the turtle and stepping back to put distance between them, Shredder spoke. "My son, success is yours. Make me proud. Show me how strong you are. Show me that you, Raphael, are worth more now than when you first set foot in Central." Hands once again planted on Raph's shoulders, he gave the turtle a rough shake to assure that he had the mutant's full attention.

Raphael felt his whole body jolt from the simple movement, but his balance remained firm. So close to such a powerful man, he felt weak, but the fact that his master was confident in Raph's abilities was a power-trip all its own. The conflict tugged at his insides, and the power-hungry feeling inside overwhelmed the weakness and fear.

Shredder watched the transference of emotions as they flashed through Raphael's eyes. The human could read the mutant like a book; he was so open and raw, especially now. He held the turtle's gaze for a prolonged period of time, watching those flitting emotions until all that was left... was hunger.

Desire.

Muted necessity.

Raphael had to remember to breathe. His head hurt. His chest felt tight, but he knew what he wanted. He didn't necessarily _like_ what he wanted, but he made a promise. And he'd keep it.

...

* * *

_[Journal Entry]_

_I like ta think there's some invisible line that I won't cross, but I dunno. I've got all these thoughts in my head, and I want 'em gone. Too much ta think about._   
_Goin' back to the Lair and playin' Ninja with the other reptiles, it's impossible. It's not even worth the consideration anymore. But... that just leaves me to wander in the other direction. And it makes me question: "How strong is my loyalty to Master Shredda?"_   
_I've been thinkin' about it... and I'm afraid of the answer._   
_I don't wanna hurt anybody, but I know I'm capable. I'm like Jekyll and Hyde, but I'm the real deal._   
_I gotta wonder, which part of me is gonna pull through?_


	36. Ch 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: -To avoid spoilers, A/N will be at the bottom.

**CH 35**

* * *

There were times he could smile, as if his world wasn't crumbing down. As if everything truly was acceptable. Then, there were times when he was consumed with a primal urge to scream and rip apart whatever he could get is hands on. And in between those two extremities were bouts of emptiness and grief as well as boasts of arrogance and pride. Of course, there were other emotions by the multitude, but they were more complicated, harder to place, impossible to label; so, he didn't try to label them.

However he felt, he acted. Whatever he needed to do, he did. If he was hungry, he ate. Thirsty, he drank. Bored, he busied himself.

Every new breath made him feel like he was one step closer to fulfillment. Every step he took or choice he made, he couldn't be sure of its necessity, but his brain pulled and pushed and argued the balance between burden and serenity.

He imagined a scale, large and golden, mythical. A beam and a fulcrum, but it was so much more elegant than that. On one end sat everything good in his life: every person he cared for, every memory he cherished, and every hope he had. On the other side was every dark secret, every fear, and every failure and misdeed.

The two opposing ends were fairly even, but sometimes, if he breathed in deep enough, thought hard enough, or gave into pressure, the scale would tip.

A bout of depression would sear into him and spread until it consumed him; then it would radiate like something foul and disease-ridden. It soured his aura, and his harsh demeanor would become contagious to those around him. Once they were susceptible to negativity, Raphael admittedly didn't feel as bad. Didn't feel so alone...

But even he could acknowledge how fucked up that was. He knew he shouldn't need to bring someone down to his level just to feel better about himself. And so, he went with the alternative: the very alternative that had carried him through a great deal of his life.

Denial of the problem. Physical banishment as an escape.

Because, really, nothing was wrong. Really, he just needed some fresh air.

Night drew in with a dignified subtlety. Bright skies turning navy as the sun seemed to fall away and take the warmth with it.

The atmosphere itself grew darker and darker as time ticked on, until blackness was stretching over the sky; a chill permeated the air and cooled the city in segments, and Raphael found himself content to feel the wind whip at his face from such an altitude. He was crouched at the edge of a hotel's roof, posed very much like a gargoyle as his eyes swept over the city lights and streets in surveillance. And with every breath, he allowed himself to feel more calm.

The city, despite the bustling activity of hurried humans below, was at peace.

Perhaps he was too high up to catch any significant sounds of scuffling or threats, but from his vantage point, everyone was moving between cars, sidewalks, and buildings. He could see small groups of loitering teens enjoying a conversation. Hobos grouped around a burning drum. A cat in a nearby alley looting through a garbage can...

Nothing notably dangerous.

No thieves. No crooks, cronies or gangbangers. Nothing overly threatening. And while it was a fine rarity in this city, Raphael couldn't find himself to be happy about the lack of action. Because, no crime wave meant no heads to bash. No excitement. No way to burn himself out.

And, right now, he needed to clear his head.

His mind was heavy with thought and predicament.

In particular, he was still trying to grasp the idle task of acquiring a certain weapon from a certain reptile for his human-master... But he was given no time frame to complete said task, and he wasn't necessarily in a hurry to do it. Not right now. Not while his head was a jumbled mess.

If he were to be honest with himself, he could use a drink. A cold one to take the edge off. Something to cloud his own brand of misery until he lost track of why he was miserable to begin with.

But he couldn't drink. Not right now. Of course not. Not when the city buzzed and begged for his attention. And he needed to be completely sober for that. The last thing he needed was to find himself stumbling punch-drunk and making a fool of himself.

Immune to the turn of events, some things never change. He still loved this city, and every bit of scum in it. It gave him something to fight for, something to fight against. For the people, against the people. For the victims, against the criminals.

Really, one human was no different than the next. Each was just as deadly, just as much of a suspect. An eventual casualty. A statistic. A pending obituary in the newspaper.

Any one of them was more or less just as capable as the next. The only difference: ability and intent.

But to Raphael's opinion, they all screamed and bled the same. Victims and criminals. The same red-red blood. The same low pained grunts and shouts of horror. The same cries and whimpers.

Perhaps it was a little unfair of him to think like that, but the bulk of them were useless. They were troublemakers. They wasted what they had and took everything for granted, then complained when they lacked something.

Raphael's greatest loathing went towards the upper-class teens who were denied $200 jeans or the latest smartphone.

Typical. Bitchy. Obnoxious. Selfish and ignorant fools, blind to their own desire to use and consume...

_'Parasites.'_

But, he reasoned, perhaps he only hated them because he could never understand them. Could never see himself in their shoes. Could never have the luxury of being anything like a spoiled little human.

He didn't have the privilege, nor the right. Not even the capability. All he had in regards to societal integration, was impossibility.

Then again, he didn't want to be anything like them. Because they could be just as monstrous as any mutant, except, their appearance hid it better. Their soft skin and hair and exaggerated smiles costumed their tainted insides.

Meanwhile, Raph was content to brood, to sit back in the shadows, and to do what needed done. Because, no one else was going to do it anyways.

 _'The cops are a fuckin' a joke. The civilians are all just a mess of action and consequence and hidden motives. Wolves in sheep's clothing. Monsters that can hide just 'cause they look normal.'_ The thought made Raph one pissed off turtle. But he quelled the simmering rage. He had to. Not because it was a foul line of thinking, but because he could feel something shift in the air.

Movement.

As if someone else was present.

As if someone was watching him.

It was an eerie feeling that caused his heart to beat just a bit faster, but he kept his breathing controlled and kept his eyes over the city below.

Slowly, he inched his hands towards the holsters of his belt, wrapping his fingers around the hilts of each sai and drawing them from their slots.

His muscles tensed, shoulders squared but he dared not move. He closed his eyes and focused on the atmosphere around him. Another slight shift in the air confirmed the presence of another being, and, almost reflexively he turned and threw a sai in the direction of the intruder.

A sound hit his ear slits before the sight met his eyes.

The sound of metal on metal. His sai colliding with a blade rather than an initial target.

Quick to get to his feet and draw himself to full height, he stared at the blade-wielding intruder and panic speared his chest. He moved to take a step back on impulse, only to stop when he felt his heel start to slip over the the ledge.

Because he couldn't face _this_ being.

This familiar face with familiar green skin.

Not now.

"Raph?"

"You shouldn't be here, Leonardo," Raphael hissed, harsher than intended.

"Raph, I'm just glad you're okay," as he spoke, the blue-banded turtle stepped closer to his unmasked brother.

Still holding one sai Raph slipped into an offensive stance, warning the other not to come closer.

Leonardo heeded the warning, stopping in his tracks. "Raph, I'm not here to fight. I'm just glad I found you. We've all been worried that-"

"Well, don't worry. I'm fine." Raphael's words were quick and rude, unthinking and sharp, cutting. He had to be that way. Behaving any other way would hurt more, he was sure.

"So, how've you been?" Leo sheathed both katanas and stepped aside, moving to pick up the sai he'd deflected when it had flown towards him. Once it was in his hand he offered it to his younger brother.

Raph looked at the sai for a long moment before snatching it up and slipping both into his belt. "I said I'm fine. I don't like repeatin' myself." He paused and looked around. The tension was thick. The moment was awkward. And really, how was he supposed to act? Clearing his throat but keeping his tone gruff, he posed a question of his own. "So, where are the others?"

Leo offered a small smile at the obvious concern. "Mikey's supposed to be running east; it's hard to say if he's actually doing what he's supposed to. And Don's somewhere north with Casey." He paused. "We've been looking for you."

Raph shrugged. "But you've all been fine, right?"

Leo opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Instead, he offered a shrug. Then, "We'll be better once you come home." He paused for one- two- three seconds, then spoke again. "Look, Raph, I'm sorry for everything. I treated you unfairly. And, about you taking the cheap shot and clipping my jaw with that metal case before- I forgive you. I just want you to come home."

Raphael's mouth dropped open and his eyes glazed over, expression showing disbelief. " _You_... are sorry. And... _you_... forgive me?" He asked the question deliberately slow, being sure to string together the words just so, and then... his shoulders shook, his eyes closed and his face split into a grin as he chuckled bitterly. "That's the Leonardo I know. Fearless asshole. _Still_ making shit about yourself, huh? Well, this ain't about you." He shook his head, and contorted his face in dark amusement.

It was too funny. Too good. Perhaps this was just the reminder he needed, to help him get his head on straight.

"Raph, I didn't mean-"

"Have ya ever spoken a single sentence without the word ' _I_ '? Really, it's sad. Still the golden boy, pullin' everyone together just ta make the dumb old rat proud. Still tryin' ta be this great leader. But, y'know what, Leonardo? Ya got a lot to learn about this big bad world we live in. Sometimes, ya fail. Sometimes, ya don't bounce back from those failures. And sometimes, ya need to just move on."

Leo's face twisted into a scowl and he prepared to offer repose, but at the last moment, a thought occurred and he opted to take the conversation in a different direction... He clamped his mouth and offered a thin smile. "I missed you. I even missed arguing with you. Why don't you come with me? We'll get Mike, Don, and Casey. We'll all head over to April's and order pizza. Then we can head back to the Lair to-"

Raphael had considered it.

Fuck, for a moment, the offer was tempting. For a moment, his heavy heart felt light and he _wanted_ to listen to Leo. He missed being near the forest-green reptile. His brother. His leader. He missed talking and arguing. He missed trading glares and exchanging words of varying degrees of trust and misjudgement. He missed their heated sparring sessions. And he could almost imagine the smiles on Don and Mike's faces, if he were to show up with Leo and they were to all have pizza.

He could almost taste the pizza. Hot and greasy, cheesy.

He considered it, fuck, he did. Right up until Leo mentioned the Lair.

Then, in that instant, Raph's heart iced over.

"Fuck yer underground prison," he spat venomously. "Ya can't make me go back there. Ya don't need me, and I sure as fuck don't need you. You didn't want me. Ya wanted a soldier fer your little army. And I ain't buyin' inta yer bullshit! Not this time, Fearless." The words fell from his mouth too easily. The aggressive tone, too harsh. The moment those words left his mouth, he wished he could take them back. But he'd meant every word, and once something was said, it could never be un-said. Only seconds had passed since he'd spouted those words, but it was already part of the past. Something final and unchangeable. Something he could write in a notebook, but not something he could re-write in life.

The words stung, even to him. But this world- Leonardo's world- was not Raph's. He didn't belong in it.

He would not go back to the smelly sewers to live under the ridiculous rules and allegations of a rat.

He had a new life. And while it wasn't what he imagined, it worked. Somehow. Under the guidance of a new master, his life had been tolerable. He'd been able to control himself, his anger and actions, unlike before when he'd been a danger to his own family.

Now, the only threat he posed was that of rejection.

He had to believe it was better that way. For everyone.

"You okay, Raph? You're zoning out," Leo cautioned the words, but his eyes were filled with worry. "You're a little close to the ledge there."

Raphael's breath caught somewhere between his throat and his lungs, but he paid no heed to the discomfort. Instead, he moved further away from the ledge and into the middle of the roof. He drew his sais once more. He stared at Leo, his own gaze hard and burning and attention suddenly redirected at the twin katanas strapped to Leo's shell.

_'A single katana from the one called Leonardo...'_

Now was as good a time as any. Right?

Leo was right there. With two swords.

And Raph needed one.

It wasn't supposed to happen tonight though. This confrontation was unwarranted. Unwanted. Raph had wanted to get some fresh air, clear his head, maybe knock down a few thugs. That's all. Nothing more.

Leo shouldn't have showed up, shouldn't have found him.

 _'It wasn't supposed ta be this way,'_ was Raph's last thought before he charged at his former leader, daring a fight.

Leo drew his own weapons out just in time to block his brother's strike. "Stand down, Raph," he said, his own steely eyes locked on burning amber. Midnight sapphires and sunset gold. "I don't want to fight you."

"Ya don't always get what ya want," Raph ground out, swiping at Leo with one sai and moving the other interlock with a katana blade.

Leo blocked the attack and pulled back, putting space between them. "Raph, we need you home."

"Well, I don't need you."

"...I can see that. You're obviously fine, but you're our Achilles heel."

"Oh, so now I'm not even muscle, I'm just a heel?" He rolled his eyes and moved to strike again.

"No, Raph, what that means is-" He blocked again, playing defensive. Against his brother, it was all he could do. He refused to harm Raphael. "Alright, let's try another tactic," he murmured, lunging at Raph, feinting, then dropping low to lock his legs around his brother's and executing a hip-throw with practiced ease.

Raph went down with a startled grunt, delivering an uncoordinated kick to Leo's plastron before getting to his feet.

Leo moved to sit, but he did not stand. He held his katanas loosely but made no move to attack or defend. He met his brother's eyes and said "We're family. I trust you, Raph. You've always tried your best to make the right decision, and I'm counting on you to do that again." He tossed both katanas so that they landed our of reach; and he managed to suppress a wince at the sound of them scraping along the roof. Still, he held up his hands to display his lack of weapon and said: "You've always held a degree of honor and loyalty, Raph. Show me that you still have that. Show me that you're the same brother I've always known you to be."

Raph's expression had fallen blank again. He'd forced that expression -or lack thereof- so often that it was becoming too easy, borderline habitual. "You... are an idiot, y'know that? I ain't gotta show ya nothin'. In fact," he paused and let his vision move to rest on the swords, "ya just made dis a whole lot easier than I thought it would be."

Leonardo frowned, misinterpreting what his brother meant. "You won't strike an unarmed opponent, Raph. That's not your style. You're better than that."

"Who said anythin' about attackin' ya?" With that, Raphael waked passed Leo, slipping both sais into his belt mid-stride. Approaching the familiar swords, he picked them up. He felt the weighted pommels in his grip, and it just felt... wrong.

But he'd made a promise.

His gaze swept along the immaculate blades, then drifted to his unarmed brother.

For a moment, he reconsidered.

Then, "You've been... takin' care of Donatello and Michelangelo, right?"

"Yeah, for the most part," Leo answered. "But they've been there for me just as much. Now, we just want to be there for you too. It's what family does, Raph."

"Don't feed me bullshit about family." He tossed one katana in Leo's general direction but kept the other.

The blue-banded turtle's hand shot up to catch the tossed weapon. "If you'd just give us a chance-"

"A chance fer what? Ta be confined underground by the damn rat? Ta be lectured by you? Ta be pranked by Michelangelo? Ta be spoken to like I'm a child just 'cause I ain't as smart as Donatello?" He shifted the sword in his grasp, but it just felt out of place. Heavier than it should have been.

"Raph, no." Leo felt his composure beginning to slip. He could see where this encounter was heading, and he didn't like it one bit. He hadn't expected to find Raphael tonight, but now that he had, the last thing he wanted was to fight and chase him off. Yet, he seemed incapable of finding the right words to say. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "I won't ask you to come home."

Raph blinked, suddenly started by the simple words. "Wha?"

"I won't ask. If you want to, you will. If you don't want to, there's nothing I can do to change your mind. But I want you to know that you'll always be welcome."

Dropping his head and letting his gaze fall to his feet, Raph mumbled a soft: "Thanks, I guess."

And Leo smiled, taking the lack of resistance as a sign to continue. "I just want to know that you're alright. That's what we all want. If you... find yourself happy somewhere else, then we're happy for you."

"Thanks," Raph said again, feeling like a broken record because he didn't know what else to say. He'd never been in this situation, having the eldest turtle speak to him in such a manner.

"And Raph?" Leo pressed.

"Yeah?" And Raph responded, inclining his head to see the other mutant.

"You probably won't want to come back to April's with me and the guys, but... just in case, we'll leave the window open, and there'll be a box with your name on it."

Raph bit his lip and looked away. It was an open invitation. But there had to be a catch. "If- If I _did_ show up- _and I'm not sayin' I will_ \- you wouldn't try to trick me inta goin' back to the Lair, right?"

"No. Ninja's honor. Family shouldn't have to trick family. I'm sure the guys will just be happy to see you."

Raph was silent for a long moment after that. One moment became several and the silence became stale as he contemplated the situation as well as his options. Then, finally: "Extra cheese and peperoni. No weird toppings. And if anyone so much as mentions the Lair or Splinta, I'm gone. Got it?"

Leo got to his feet, sheathed his single katana and gave a tight-lipped smile. "I swear on my honor, Raph. You won't have to answer any questions. You don't have to come home if you're not ready. There's no pressure."

Raph hesitated, but after several beats, he said: "Lead the way."

Leo nodded and reached for his other katana, but Raph stepped back and reaffirmed his grip on the weapon.

"I'll hold onto it, just fer a bit. 'Kay?" Raph's words. His eyes held something strange, something close to guilt but too hard to properly discern.

Not wanting to addle his brother, Leo moved to scale down the side of the building with Raph in tow.

_'If I can just show Raph that we trust him, miss him, need him... maybe he'll come home on his own. Tonight might be my only chance. I will not fail my brothers. Not this time.'_

The two turtles dropped onto a fire escape and began an easier trek down in companionable silence, both circulating their own thoughts as they did.

As they neared the ground, a civilian's scream caught their attention and both jerked their heads to look for the source.

"Raph-" Leo began, but was cut off by the other turtle.

"Shut it, Leader-boy, let's go." And when Raphael's feet touched the ground, he broke into a run, sticking to the shadows like only a ninja can.

Leo followed close, keeping track of his brother's every move. With confrontation at bay, he was able to objectively observe the brother that had been gone for so long. Too long. Six and a half months of his absence... And during that time, it seemed, his emerald-skinned sibling had changed noticeably.

Leonardo had been too caught up in the relief of finding Raph to fully take in the nuances, until now.

Raphael seemed calmer. More reasonable. More level-headed despite the tension and anger he still retained. And those muscles that had always bulged out, much larger than that of the other turtles, had grown to startling proportions. His whole upper body's mass almost made his head look too small. Then, of course, he had new gear. The pads around his elbows and knees, cayenne-colored steel plates held on by black leather bands. And that belt, so strange with a segmented panel that seemed to radiate with energy. Even Raph's carapace was different than it used to be. The shell still held the imperfections branded with battle, but now the natural gloss was gone, leaving it to appear dull and dry; and there were sections of scutes that had begun to split to compensate for rapid growth.

The older turtle stared at the splitting scutes of his younger sibling. It was an odd thing to focus on, but Leo couldn't take his eyes off it as they moved along in synch with perfect stealth, city lights occasionally catching on their weapons or skin.

Speaking of weapons, Raphael was still holding Leo's second katana- another oddity that the blue-masked ninja couldn't understand. But he wouldn't question it. Not now. Not when he was so close to his brother after such a long time.

He wouldn't trouble Raphael with an interrogation. He wouldn't pressure him into anything. He just wanted Raph to be at ease, and maybe, he'd decide to come home on his own. That's the best he could hope for right now.

Using any kind of force would only cause more damage in this situation.

Leo had to be cautious. He knew Raphael's spirit was still trapped, but he hoped beyond hope that this encounter would go smoothly, possibly bring them even closer together so that he could free Raphael's inner self. Then, maybe Raph would come home. And the family would be made whole.

But first...

The two tore onto the scene in a parking lot, yet Raphael hung back, pressing himself against a building to veil himself within the shadows.

A gang -consisting of at least thirty helmet-wearing thugs- was shaking down an older gentleman in a business suit while fending off a few familiar faces.

Mikey was approaching the gentleman, smiling brightly. "Turtle to the rescue, dude." He waved his hand to the opening path that Don and Casey had cleared. "Right this way. Get to safety, and call the cops in about ten minutes. Alright? And, uh, keep the mutant ninja stuff a secret." He gave a wink and led the human away.

Meanwhile... "Bottom of the ninth. Bases are loaded. Batter up!" Casey hollered, slamming his bat into the helmet of one man and sending him to the ground in an unconscious heap.

"I prefer a game of Stick Ball myself," Don chuckled, tripping another with his bo.

Facing each other, Don and Casey slapped their hands together in a high-5 and high-3 gesture before turning back to back and continuing to bust thugs down while Michelangelo continued to usher the victimized human to safety.

Raph watched from the shadows, almost mesmerized by their teamwork and light-hearted banter.

Leo, seeing that Raph had frozen in place, whispered: "You can join them, you know. We could all use the help." He placed a hand on Raph's shoulder for the briefest moment before drawing it away and moving to assist his brothers. Holding his single katana in both hands he rushed forward.

"Hey! Bro!" Mikey shouted as the one human scampered off with a wild slew of unintelligible words that were caught between panic and gratitude. "Man, are we glad to see you! What took you so long, Leo?!" The orange-banded turtle procured a kusarigama and stepped into action with some exaggerated battle cries.

"You'll have to forgive me," Leo said calmly, raising his sword to block a lead pipe that his opponent had swung. "Or, perhaps you'd rather thank me."

" _Thank_ you?!" Don asked, twirling his bo and stepping aside to avoid a second and third attack as he became isolated from Casey and surrounded.

"I gotcha, Donnie-boy!" Casey shouted, barreling into the crowd and giving several wild swings of his bat until it was effectively knocked from his hands. Without missing a beat, he reached into his equipment bag and grabbed a hockey stick. "Alright, the puck's at the left board in the Offensive Zone. Right defenseman on the move..." He stepped aside and swiped his stick, blade-down, and hooked it around the ankle of his foe; with ease he tripped his opponent and caused him to fall back and smack his head against the pavement. "Now, is that a penalty fer hooking or tripping?" He watched the same thug try to get up, only to swing again. "Now, that's a penalty for slashing. Let's see if I can get one fer interference!" Another swing and a comical jeer as he flashed a grin. "Get the team short-handed and there's no repercussion for icing!" He looked down at a conveniently placed rock. He pulled his arms high and brought the stick down in an arc, slapping the blade of his stick against the ground and working his weight against the flex of the stick; he struck the rock and rolled his wrists before following through- to perform a perfect slapshot- the rock flying with amazing speed and power, hitting an unlucky young man in the thigh.

Donatello, no longer backed into a corner, moved closer to his eldest brother. "Leo, where were you?"

Stepping back to take in the dwindling number of criminals, Leo smiled at his genius brother. "I could tell you, but I'd rather show you." He paused and turned to look towards a pool of shadows. "Why don't you come out and help with the last of these guys? I bet you're itching for the fight."

With mild hesitation the onlooker moved in. One two-toed foot spilled from the darkness and into the light, followed by the rest of the leg. Then the other leg. And with that, the entirety of the mutant was revealed, emerald skin catching in the flickering lights of nearby arc lamps.

And in that moment, everything stilled.

Time lost its meaning.

Hearts stopped and breath hitched.

Only one voice broke through to restore order.

"Raphie?" Michelangelo's one word squeaked through his tightening throat as he slipped his kusarigama into his belt and darted towards the rogue turtle. Without the slightest hint of reluctance or thought, he jumped up and wrapped his arms and legs around his older brother, holding on for dear life. "Raph. It's really you, bro. I-I just..." His words trailed off. He couldn't find the right thing to say, so he stopped talking and just held tight, resting his head against Raph's shoulder like he did when he was still afraid of the boogeyman.

Raphael visibly stiffened at the contact, but after several seconds, he brought his hands up to rest on Mike's shell, returning the hug.

Don moved closer, completely ignoring the remaining goons and punkers as he took in Raph's altered appearance, namely the change in size and visible gaps in his shell. With a shake of his head, Don made an effort to ignore his pending speculations in favor of focusing on the fact that his missing brother... wasn't missing anymore. "Do you mind," he began, voice timid, "if I just...-" He didn't finish the question. Instead, he slammed one end of his bo into the pavement and used it to vault closer to Raph and Mikey. Once there, he joined the hug.

Leo stood back, watching, smiling. His heart was swelling with a happiness he'd almost forgotten. Just seeing all his brothers together, he felt like everything was going to be alright. And yet, he had this nagging feeling that something seemed amiss; though, he couldn't quite place what it was. _'Something's off...'_ But Leo's thoughts came to a grinding halt as Casey finished off another baddie and also rushed over to the group of turtles, pouncing at them and effectively knocking them all off balance and into a pile of limbs, shells, and Mikey's laughter, Don's muttering, and Raph's own subtle sniffles that he'd firmly deny if anyone prodded the issue.

"Raph has agreed," Leo began, smiling so wide that his face actually hurt, "to accompany us to April's and order some pizza."

There was a barrage of cheers, mostly from Casey and Michelangelo.

"But," Leo interjected, "I have promised that we will not question him. We will not pressure him. And he gets his own pizza."

By the time the group disentangled themselves and got up, the conscious members of the gang were gone, while the unconscious ones remained. Regardless, no one saw this as a loss.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -If you're concerned that this chapter conflicts with Raph's last Journal, it doesn't. His last Journal said it wasn't possible to go back to the Lair and play Ninja. That is the last thing he wants to do right now. But he still misses his brothers.
> 
> NOTE: THERE IS JUST OVER 3 MONTHS OF STORYTIME LEFT BEFORE THIS FIC IS OVER.
> 
> Any predictions on the ending? Thoughts? 
> 
> -Next chapter is In-Progress! STAY TUNED!


	37. Ch 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: WARNING! INSENSITIVE JOKES AHEAD! ALSO, BE PREPARED FOR PLATONIC HEAD-LICKING.

**CH 36**

* * *

It shouldn't have been so easy. There should have been tension and awkward stretches of silence. They should have fed him question after question until he felt sick enough to hurl or angry enough to storm off in a frenzy. He should have been annoyed or frustrated, anxious to get on with his own life. He should have been able to turn away and run without a second thought.

Instead, it was easy. Too easy. Too lax and too comfortable. Too nostalgic. Kinda like, if you grew up watching the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, then were subjected to the newer versions and had a chance to watch the original again. Everything about it, bland and predictable with a side of cheesy and downright laughable, but because of nostalgia... you don't laugh. You smile serenely and watch, mentally checking off the potentially good aspects and denying or justifying the bad.

This was the figurative boat Raphael found himself in.

April had greeted each of them with tight hugs and kind words, granted them free reign over the apartment (Her one rule was: Don't Break Anything.) and then left for a work-related event. Some cocktail party that doubled as a charity event for wealthy bigots and the reporters and journalists that sought out the big scoops. Ever the gentleman, Casey insisted on being her escort, just to make sure she arrived safely, but he would be returning and meeting up with the others shortly.

Meanwhile, Raphael himself was seated on April's couch, a box of pizza in his lap and a particularly cheesy slice making it's way to and from his mouth. Between bites, he found himself unable to stop grinning as his orange-banded sibling jumped up in down excitedly and offered rapid-fire joke after joke, only slowing down when one required a more complicated setup.

"Okay, okay! You'll love this one, bro! What do you call a lesbian-"

"Mikey!" Don intervened, bo in hand and warning clear. "Nothing dirty, please."

The orange-banded turtle tried again. "Okay, so... What does the Mafia have in common with a Pussy-"

 _Whack!_ The end of the staff came down and conked Michelangelo on the head. "I gave you fair warning," Donatello said. "Nothing dirty."

"I was gonna say _Pussy-Cat!_ " Mike yipped, hands resting on his head to nurse what would soon be a bruise. "Owwww," he whined exaggeratedly. "I think you split my skull."

Raphael rolled his eyes and finished his slice of pizza, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he was done. Food on its way to his stomach, he found his voice. "Why don't ya just skip the vulgarities, alright? Somethin' clean so Brainiac over there doesn't have a hernia."

Taking a seat in a floral-printed recliner with a dysfunctional footrest, Don's head tilted in a curious fashion. "You know what a hernia is, Raph?"

The emerald-skinned turtle had no time to answer, as the youngest jumped back in with another determined attempt to amuse his mask-less bro. "Right, so, uh, first I need some names. Let's go with _Donnie_ and _Leo_ \- y'know, to keep things simple." He cast a mischievous glance towards his purple-banded brother before continuing. "So, Leo and Donnie were walking home from a coffee shop-"

Setting his nearly empty pizza box aside, Raphael gave an amused snort, "Unlikely..."

Mikey paid no heed to the small interruption; instead, he pressed on, grinning just as wide as ever. "As they walked, Donnie was pushing a bicycle. And of course, Leo had to ask where Don got the bike- because obviously, it wasn't Don's."

Raph nodded absently, not seeing where this was going.

Mike didn't disappoint. "And Don said: 'This was April's bike! I met up with her; she jumped off the bike, threw off her clothes, and said: TAKE WHATEVER YOU WANT! _'_ And, Joke-Don added... ' _Obviously, I took the bike_.'- Get it?!" Mikey quipped, pleased with himself and the joke's delivery, though the cleanliness of said joke was questionable.

Raph's own mirth escaped, even as he turned his head and feigned a cough in an attempt to cover the laugh. "I gotcha. 'Cause, obviously he shoulda wanted to - ahem..." he trailed off, his point taken.

Still comfortably seated in the nearby recliner, Donatello's face took on a horrified expression. "Mikey, that joke is... widely inappropriate."

"Your mom's widely inappropriate!" Mikey jived, laughing hysterically afterwards.

Raph joined in, covering his mouth but failing to stifle the guffaw; his shoulders shook with the effort, and after the initial attempt to cover the laugh, he just let it go and joined in with Mikey's infectious humor.

Don prepared to take another reprimanding swing with his bo, but Leo gave a stern look and a subtle shake of his head.

There was nothing wrong with a little laughter, even if it was due to a rather lewd joke.

There could be no unnecessary tension tonight: a fact that was wordlessly decided and agreed upon.

Tonight would be about brotherhood and togetherness. Tonight, there would be no lectures, no over-thinking, and no poorly-concealed pain. Tonight, there would be only four turtles and overdue elation.

Leo, having been content to simply stand off to the side and watch his siblings bond, face-palmed at everyone's antics, especially when Mikey decided to launch a not-so-sneaky sneak attack at Raph, resulting in the larger mutant pulling the youngest into a headlock and delivering a noogie and some good-natured insults.

In respite of the eldest turtle's obvious contentedness, a voice in the back of his head nagged, reminding him that this arrangement was temporary. That reminder threatened to eat away at his insides and rip apart his careful composure, but for now, Leo pushed the thought aside and managed a smile.

He noted Michelangelo's impossibly infectious cheer as he kicked out of Raph's hold and then turned to attack Don. Equally obvious, was Donatello's own version of light-heartedness and coveted concern. But mostly, Leonardo paid close attention to Raph...

The way Raphael sat with his posture just a little too-straight, too perfect for the ninja-dropout he grew up with. Then there was the way that, even though there was obviously no need for any confrontation, his hands were almost constantly moving to the hilts of his sais, as if to assure their presence. Occasionally, Raphael's toes would curl against the carpet fibers, and Leo subconsciously found himself mimicking the action- though the eldest turtle stopped the moment he realized it. Then, the new scars... Leo couldn't help wondering where they came from. They were faint, healed, but jagged and noticeable, and a quick glance at Donatello assured that his genius brother had noticed as well.

Leo wanted to ask. He wanted to know everything- not for the sake of knowing, but out of genuine concern for his brother. Raphael had been gone too long; they'd all missed out on so much. Yet, somehow, the distance wrought by time hadn't damaged their bond. Misunderstandings had, but time had not. And with that acknowledgement, Leo found new grounds for determination.

Tonight, he'd take the first of many steps to sort everything out. And he'd be the big brother Raphael needed. But he had to be careful not to add any pressure to the already fragile situation.

As Leo watched Mikey return to his course of jokes- which had finally moved from dirty to goofy and even included a few Knock-Knocks-

 _"Why did Sally fall off the swing?"  
"I dunno. Why?"  
"Because she had no arms! -Now, Knock-Knock!"  
"Who's there?"_  
_"NOT SALLY!"_

Don had moved to sit closer to his brothers, happiness beaming through the cracks in his placid exterior. He'd missed his hotheaded brother, and while he'd never admit it, he was a little envious of Michelangelo's talent for stealing all of Raph's attention. But Don conceded. He was the engineer, the doctor, the techie. He was the Fix-It guy. And right now, he supposed there was nothing to fix. His family was as fixed as it could be at the moment, and he couldn't be happier.

If Leo were to be honest with himself, he couldn't find his voice to say what needed said. Couldn't bring himself to spoil the scene before him... even if his lack of participation made him feel a twinge o guilt. Almost needing to say something -anything- he opened his mouth to spout something meaningful, but all that came out was a polite: "I'm going to get some water. Can I get anyone anything?" His words, a new brand of failure, but he still managed a sheepish grin as he forced himself to take a few steps towards the kitchen.

"Coffee?" Don piped, indirect with his request.

"April has some instant coffee," Leo responded. Just as he was about to exit the living room, Raph's voice stalled him.

"I could use a drink," Raphael's voice was thick as he uttered the simple sentence.

Leo halted immediately.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis, and suddenly, all the feel-goods were doing somersaults right out the proverbial window.

Either not noticing or completely ignoring everyone's discomfort, Raph repeated: "I could use a drink."

It was in that exact moment that the apartment door opened up and the familiar face of Casey Jones came into view. The entirety of his form bumbled in, kicking his shoes off in a hurry to join the guys in celebration.

Leo considered using the human's arrival as a distraction, but he quickly pushed the thought aside. The matter of Raphael's drinking needed addressed. Then again, if he could get his brother to accept a less potent beverage, then surely the pending lecture could be avoided... So, ignoring Casey, he tried to make his voice sound normal, stoic. "A drink? Water? Tea? I doubt you'd want coffee, Raph..." He tried to feign ignorance, curling his toes against the carpet fibers, almost needing the pull of familiarity.

The human vigilante, unaware of Leonardo's plight and plot, was all too happy to offer a toothy grin and his two cents. "C'mon, Leo, don't be dense! Let my buddy have himself a drink! -Don't worry, Raph; I'll get ya somethin' good!" And with that, the human rushed passed Leo and into the kitchen, making a beeline for the fridge.

Leo hesitated but followed right behind him, a worried expression crossing his features. "Is it a good idea for Raph to be drinking?" he asked, voice so low he was almost whispering.

Casey shrugged, fridge door open and head inside as he dug around, shifting cartons and condiments and various items inside. "He's fine, Leo. Let the guy have a little fun."

"Raph can have fun just as easily without alcohol," Leo said sternly, but the expression on his face- the gleam in his eyes- spoke volumes of uncertainty.

Casey, with his head still in the fridge, sighed dramatically. "Stop tryin' ta control him, Leo. Yer gonna end up pissin' him off and pushin' him away. And, Leo, that ain't good fer nobody." He shoved a carton of eggs aside and frowned when he couldn't find what he wanted, then settled on the only thing alcoholic available. Standing up and shutting the fridge door, he looked at Leo. "Grab some glasses, would ya, bud?"

Leo's face was contorted oddly, as if he'd been physically stricken, yet he seemed resigned as he quietly asked: "How many glasses?" Internally admitting defeat, he turned to the cupboard where the cups and glasses were haphazardly arranged.

"Well, let's see. Me, and you four turtles. That's five. Cinco cuppos, compadre."

"Casey," Leo hissed, eyes narrowing in distaste. "We are not all going to sit around drinking tonight. If you and Raph do, fine, but not me, and not my brothers."

"Raph's your bro too."

Leo clamped his mouth shut, having had his own words thrown back at him. And it stung. He drew in a deep breath before muttering: "Yeah, I know. But..." He leaned back against the counter and lowered his head. "It's been so hard with Raph gone... I don't know what to say or how to act around him. He's like a different turtle."

Casey walked over to Leo and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Leo, Raph's your bro. He's probably missed you guys just as much. Now, I ain't got no idea why he's been gone or what he's been up to, but he seems like the same turtle ta me, and I ain't gonna treat him different."

Leo inclined his head and looked the human in the eye. "I'd rather Raph not drink anything," he said, voice strained. "I don't know how alcohol effects him, and this is the first time we've been able to-"

"I know, Leo. But ya gotta realize that Raph was gone a long time."

"I know, Casey. That's why-"

"And, as bad as we've been hurtin', don't ya think he's been hurtin' too? We don't now how much he's been sufferin', but if a quick drink makes him feel better, why stop him? Worst case scenario here, he passes out and wakes up nauseous with a bad headache." He chuckled and pulled his hand away from Leo. "Lighten up. Put a smile on that beak of yours. In fact..." He turned to the cupboard and proceeded to pull out a few mix-matched glasses, from tumblers to flutes. Pulling the stopper from the wine decanter, he poured a little in two of the glasses, then set the bottle on the counter. Holding one glass, he handed the other to Leo. "To Raph," he said, forcing a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes.

Sighing, Leo stared at the glass in his hand for a long moment before raising it to clink against Casey's. "To Raph," he agreed, trying not to be somber.

And both the human and turtle took a drink. Casey swallowed his down with ease while Leo scrunched up his face and spit it all back into the cup.

"Smooth, Leo. Reeeeal, smooth," the human teased.

The blue-banded turtle scowled. "I didn't want any anyways."

"Ah, c'mon, Leo! It barely touched your tongue. Give it a quick swallow."

"No, I'm going to get Don some coffee. He asked for it. You just... whatever." Leo sighed heavily, sat the glass down next to the decanter, and reached into the cupboard for a coffee cup.

Casey patted Leo on the shoulder one last time, gathered the cups between his chest and forearm with the bottle in his other hand, and headed back to the living room. "Leo's gonna be a minute with yer coffee Donnie-boy," he said with excess enthusiasm, "but I brought somethin' special." He held up the bottle and proceeded to pass out the glasses.

Donatello frowned at his glass. "I'll wait for the coffee," he tried to be polite with his decline.

Michelangelo raised his glass and looked through it like a telescope. "Dude..." He lowered his glass and looked around sheepishly. "Like, am I supposed to drink any of that?" he pointed towards the bottle in Casey's hand.

Casey shrugged. "You're all close in age, right? I ain't seein' the problem."

Raph growled lowly. "Case..." He jabbed a thumb in Mikey's direction. "The only thing he's gettin' is soda or kool-aid. And, if he drinks, he can have a knuckle-sandwich ta go with it." He punctuated his words by cracking his knuckles in jest of threat.

Mikey set the glass down on a stand and pounced at his emerald-skinned brother. "Awwwe, Raphie, you _do_ care!"

Raph grunted and proceeded to pry the younger turtle off. When it proved to be harder than he thought, he gave up and sighed in frustration. "Use yer head, Case. This knucklehead needs all his braincells."

Casey rolled his eyes and bit back repose, moving to pour himself and Raph each a full glass.

Raphael watched as his glass was filled. He gave it an experimental sniff and swirled the contents of his glass.

Casey noticed and quirked a skeptical brow. "Ya gonna stare at it, or drink it? It ain't poisoned or nothin.'"

Raph shrugged. "It's wine."

"I know that, ya bonehead!"

Raph blinked, as if affronted by the human's outburst. "You can determine the potency of wine by how opaque it is as it moves along the glass," he said matter-of-factually.

Casey stared, dumbfounded. "Since when are you a fancy-pants know-it-all?"

Raph opened his mouth but closed it afterwards. Wordless. He had to think about it for a moment, but even so, he could never give the honest answer. He'd seen the Shredder- rather, Soupy- sip at wine, and the human-tyrant always went through a specific ritual of smelling it, then testing the potency levels by swirling the glass. Then, lastly, he'd drink it slowly and comment on how how it was aged, how rich or smooth it was, and how it compared to others he favored. Honestly, Raph had picked up quite a bit after a while. The numerous differences between a good Cabernet and Merlot...

"Are you alright?" Don asked suddenly, cutting through Raphael's thoughts with a concerned tone. "You're zoning out."

"Sorry," Raph mumbled, pushing Mike away and then sipping at his drink.

It was then that Leo finally returned from the kitchen, a coffee cup in hand and an embarrassed expression on his face. He handed the cup to Don and moved to sit on a nearby wooden stool.

Don looked at his cup and then spared Leo a questioning glance. "It's... cold."

Leo nodded but refused eye contact. "I... fought valiantly... I battled the microwave... and lost," he confessed dismally. "I don't think I broke it, but the light inside isn't coming on, and-."

Sighing dramatically, Don got to his feet and turned towards the kitchen, cold cup in his grasp. "I'll go take a look."

Raph caught the spectacle and smirked. "Some things never change." The emerald-skinned mutant had just polished off his glass and set it aside when he felt a distinctly unfamiliar pressure move over the dome of his head. He made a sour face at the discomfort, balled his hands into fists and jabbed at the source of agitation. His fist collided with Michelangelo, who pulled back with an expression equivalent to that of a kicked puppy. "What the fuck ya doin'?" Raph spat moving his hand to rub the wet streak that ran along his head.

Mikey's bottom lip jutted out and quivered, though he had nothing but crocodile tears to offer as he feigned hurt. "I only licked you, Raphie."

Raph grit his teeth in annoyance. "And, why did ya do that?" he ground out.

Mikey cocked his head to the side as he responded: "I just realized that you smelled funny."

"So ya licked my damn head?!"

Mikey bobbed his head in a nod. "Yep," came the answer, as if that simple word held all the justification in the world. Then, to add insult to injury- so to speak... "I gotta say, I've tasted a lot of bad stuff, but your head tastes like frog anus."

Raphael's jaw slackened with disbelief and irritation. "Frog an-"

"Mikey," Leo cut in. "How do you even know what-"

"Okay, spill it, ya bonehead," Casey piped up, crossing his arms. "I'm sure there's a fun story ta this one."

Michelangelo shrugged and looked away, trying to appear casual about the affair. "You've seen the movie Shrek, right? Well, remember that scene when Shrek and Fiona are in the field? They grab a frog and snake, inflate them, and use them as balloons. Call me crazy, but I tried it." He visibly paled. "Do. Not. Try. It. Doesn't work, and it tastes bad. Kinda like Raph's head."

Everyone looked to Raphael, who sat perfectly still with an unreadable expression.

In an awkward attempt to diffuse the tension, Casey raised both hands and spoke rather loudly: "Sooo, anyone up fer a movie? What about a refill?" He gestured to the bottle. He got up and moved to refill Raphael's glass, but Raph just swiped the bottle and shooed his human friend away.

"Can we watch Rise of the Guardians?" Mikey asked, looking around for approval.

"Anything's fine," Leo answered.

"Somethin' with people- not talkin' animals," Raph said sharply.

Everyone gave him an odd look.

"Dude, that's totally uncool, bro," Mikey said.

Raph pressed the rim of the bottle to his mouth and took a long drink before sighing and answering, "I just... No. No talkin' animals. No romance bullshit. Nothin' with a moral. Just... anythin' but that."

Trying to hide his disappointment, Michelangelo began to sort through a stack of DVD's. "Do talking dinosaurs count as talking animals?" Mikey asked as he fingered the anniversary edition of The Land Before Time. When he was answered with ambiguous murmuring, he drew in a breath and puffed out his cheeks childishly, then released the air and continued to search. Then... "Hey, what's this?" He pulled out an old unmarked DVD case, in which was an equally unmarked DVD.

Curiously, he put it in the DVD player. He grabbed the remote, but without any menu or prompt, the DVD began to play automatically.

A younger April O'Neil came into view, wearing a bright yellow jumpsuit and smiling at the camera. "This is April O'Neil, Chanel 6 News. And though I'm no meteorologist, I can promise things are about to get very... very... hott." She grabbed the zipper between her index finger and thumb and slowly began to pull it down, revealing a pink lacy little number that cradled and lifted her breasts...-

None the the 'movie-watchers' quite knew how to respond to the visual; more or less, they each gawked and tried to process what they were seeing.

Leo, quiet and nervous, was the first to find his voice. "I don't think we were supposed to find this disk..."

Upon seeing Film-April unhooking her bra and releasing an unnecessary moan, Mikey 'eeped' and quickly moved his finger to turn it off, incidentally hitting the power button several times before supplying: "WE SHOULD PLAY A GAME! I'll get the Uno cards!" He quickly scrambled to his feet and ran off to do as he promised, fetching the deck.

Raphael glanced at the now-empty bottle of wine and grumbled: "No offense, but I don't think there's enough alcohol in the U.S. ta make _that_ attractive."

Casey glared at the offending mutant. "Wha? April's a peach! How could ya say that? Do ya not like women or somethin'? Are ya only inta turtle babes?- Wait, are there turtle babes?"

Leo pressed his face into his hands and answered: "No, to our knowledge, there are no females of our kind. And, can we just forget this ever happened." He heaved a sigh. "April's going to be so upset." His expression was one of regret and apprehension.

Don returned in time to hear Leo's last words of sorrow, arms crossed and eyes set into a hard glare. "You're right about that. April's going to be terribly upset when she finds out that _you_ broke her microwave. Honestly, Leo, I'm not even sure how you do it. And I swear, if you go anywhere near her toaster-"

Mikey hurried back onto the scene with an exuberant smile and a box caught between his hands. "I couldn't find Uno, but I got Yahtzee! It's boring, but we can make up our own rules! Um..."

Raphael placed a hand to his face and rubbed his beak. "It's gettin' late, guys. You can play, but I should probably get goin'."

Donatello's eyes widened; their time with Raphael had been so brief, and he wasn't ready for it to come to an end.

Michelangelo wasn't ready for that either; he dropped the Yahtzee box and looked ready to cry, his big blue eyes welling up behind his orange mask.

Leo held up his hands in a placating gesture, fighting to find the right words to say.

And Casey, preferring to act now and think later, pounced at Raph and fought to wrestle and pin him down. "Don't be an ass, Raph! You've been gone long enough! Fuck, we don't even know where you've been!"

Feeling Casey make an attempt to hold him down while implied but unasked questions hung in the midst, Raphael felt his insides heating up, quickly reaching boiling point. Sunset-colored eyes widened; the edges of his vision began to blur in a frighteningly familiar way. Panic started at his core and proceeded to burn and spread, scorching him from the inside out, urging him to move- to do something. His breath came in fast shallow gasps and his muscles tightened in anticipation. He felt cornered, trapped. His vision fading, it was only a matter of time before...

Before...

Casey refused to relent. He knew that if push came to shove, the mutant could plow right through him, but he was determined not to lose his friend. Caught up in his own emotional frenzy, he was doing the only thing he could think to do. He was fighting back, almost beckoning Raph to do the same. He stared into the turtle's eyes and watched those pupils dilate. "Raph..."

Raphael's throat felt tight; his vision was getting fuzzier by the second. It took all his willpower not to snap the fine thread of coherency that kept him from slipping into a fit of rage. Still, he moved his hands to grip the human's upper arms tightly, to offer a warning. "Casey. Fuckin'. Jones. Get... off," he forced the words, voice serious and eyes narrowed into something hateful.

"Yer usin' my last name now? Since when? C'mon, Raph! Dis ain't you. Don't-"

"I don't like repeatin' myself," Raph grumbled, tightening his grip and causing Casey to wince. The turtle squeezed his eyes shut before easing them open, hoping his vision would be restored- to no avail. If anything, everything had gotten even fuzzier. It was getting hard to see, hard to breathe, and in time, it would be hard to think. He'd lose himself. And he wouldn't be able to control himself.

Control. It was slipping. After all this time- he'd been doing so well... Some small part of his mind frantically searched for the problem, but his thoughts were getting further and further away, harder to understand. He shut his eyes again, and when he opened them, they were wide and pleading. He could feel the intensity growing, pulling at him like a puppet on strings, coaxing his conscience into oblivion and trying to push him over the edge of coherency. If that happened...

 _'Don't think about it'_ Raphael mentally told himself. _'Don't hurt anyone. Not now. Not now. I'm still in control. I ain't gonna hurt Casey.'_

Leonardo was on his feet and at their side the moment he put 2 and 2 together and understood the problem. He grabbed the back of the human's shirt and hauled him up and off of Raphael. "Casey, you're upsetting him; lay off. Raph, calm down; take deep breaths. This needs to stop before it escalates any further. We're all stressed, and we need to take a moment to calm down. Why don't we all meditate and-"

When Raphael only appeared more annoyed at the suggestion, Mikey panicked and intervened the only way he could think. Once again, he moved in to lick Raphael's head; his tongue flat against Raph's scalp, he licked a firm line.

With an almost primal roar, Raphael jumped to his feet, shoved both Casey and Leonardo out of his way, and proceeded to chase after Michelangelo, who easily outran his hotheaded brother.

"C'mon, Raphie! Your muscles got bigger, but you didn't get any faster!" he teased.

The chase continued until Raph managed to trip over the forgotten Yahtzee box; he hit the carpeted floor plastron-first. It took a moment for him to sit up. With a withering glare cast towards the Yahtzee box, he gave it a kick and watched with satisfaction as it skidded away.

Wrought with worry, Michelangelo quickly moved to check on his fallen brother. "You okay, Raph? I'm sorry! I just-"

In a blink of an eye, Raph had pulled the orange-banded turtle into a headlock. Then, after a moment's hesitation, when the air grew stale and everyone seemed wary and tense, Raph stuck his own tongue out and pressed it against Michelangelo's dome, giving a payback-lick and chuckling at the disturbed expression that crossed his younger brother's face.

"Ewwww, Raaaaphie."

And just like that, the tension subsided.

The threat of Raphael's volcanic emotions was no more.

Relieved, Leo turned his attention to his genius sibling. "Now, what's wrong with April's microwave?"

...

When everything had settled down, Mikey happily put on the movie: Wreck It Ralph.

Halfway through the movie, Raphael stripped himself of his gear, turned on every lamp in the room, and laid on the couch. After a brief internal debate, he let his eyes slip closed and fell asleep within minutes. He knew he was taking a gamble by staying, but he wanted this. Just one time, he wanted to sleep without being surrounded by white walls. Just once, he wanted to wake up and not be completely alone. Should this decision cause problems, he'd deal with it in the morning.

The movie continued to play, but everyone in the room had stopped watching, instead staring at the large turtle who looked strangely peaceful as he slept.

Curiously, Casey approached Raph's sleeping form. He grabbed one of the turtle's hands and lifted it high before dropping it. Turning to face the others, he said, "Raph's out cold." Just to confirm his own words, he turned back and proceeded to poke the turtle's arm several times.

Mikey moved in next, kneeling beside the couch and staring intently at his brother. "Hard to believe he's really here, huh?" He looked at his other brothers and flashed them a bright smile that could put the sun to shame. Then he rested his head on the couch next to Raph's. "I can't wait to get him home... He'll love my Skittle-pancake-anchovy-surprise with extra marshmallows." His smile seemed infallible, eyes glinting with an honest glee he'd forgotten until now. Because, his family was whole. It could be mended. "We'll get Raphie home; Master Splinter will be so glad to see him; and everything can go back to normal. We'll be like a real family again." Content with his reasoning, he let his eyes slip closed, feigning sleep even though he wasn't tired and the movie playing behind him was nearing its climax.

Leo stared at his youngest brother, having heard his words and witnessed the return of that impossibly bright outlook on life. It pained him, knowing that he had to be honest. Knowing that, as the oldest, it would be his duty to speak the cold hard truth. "Mikey..." He was hesitant, but he pressed on. As a brother and a leader, he had to. "Raph might not come home yet. And I promised we wouldn't pressure the issue. That's the only reason he came with us. He's going through a lot right now, and-" Leo stopped, a soft sound catching his attention.

Mikey was sniffling; his tears came quiet, but the sound of his heartbreak was nearly audible.


	38. Ch 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: This chapter, along with the next two, will be short. Each of Raph's brothers will get their own little chapter before we jump back to Raph and further the storyline.

**CH 37**

* * *

_[Leo]_

There was no rest. Not even meditation could pull the blue-banded turtle from the realms of conscious anxiety. He had tried to meditate, but his mind was too full, too fogged and beaten down by his unrelenting thoughts. His spirit was unable to transcend the boundaries of his physical form, so great was his unease. It was frustrating, but not as bad as the acknowledgement that his heart felt like a bag of rocks, plummeting; he could almost feel it dropping into the pit of his stomach, making him feel ill and distempered.

Spending this little bit of time with Raphael, it was better than anyone could have hoped, but also... it was hurtful. Because this arrangement was not permanent.

It was a tease, a reminder of what they lost. It was an assurance that they were close, but not close enough. It was like giving a child a present the day before his or her birthday, then taking it away because the timing wasn't right.

It was a false ending. Y'know, the kind near the end of a movie that has you getting up and ready to depart- because it _felt_ like it was over, only to sit back down at the sound of ominous music as the film not only continues... but also takes a dramatic turn for the worse.

A false ending. That's what this was. An unreality. Because the honest reality would rear its ugly head the moment Raphael set foot out the door. It would be disparaging. A new breed of horror to go along with his own failures.

Leonardo wanted, more than anything, for things to be made right. For Raphael's presence to be a constant element in their lives. He wanted it so much that it hurt. He wanted his hotheaded brother back at the Lair. He wanted to spar, to share meals, to argue... He even wanted to suffer the allegedly insufferable fits of rage Raphael was prone to having.

Leo wanted to watch his normally red-masked brother storm off after a heated argument, only to come back hours later with a smouldering glare and a hesitant apology.

Because, yes, even Raphael was capable of apologizing- and he did it more often than anyone bothered to consider; it had become such a normal thing for him to mess up and work to make amends.

And of course, Leo was always ready to put him in his place with a lecture or scorn. With words. With a superior look that only furthered his brother's aggression.

Blind and habitual instigation followed by equally blind retaliation.

Their own personal routine.

It was an ill thing to crave, Leo knew. He _knew_. It was wrong, on so many levels, that he missed the spark in those amber eyes when they would push and shove and push again. The sheer aggravation that came so close to hatred but was overpowered by a loving bond so much more prominent. This is what they had. As brothers. As teammates. Something so strong that the greatest resentment could not tear through it.

Yet, for all his training, Leo -just like Raph- never noticed he'd taken it too far until it was too late.

It was a disease- these feelings Leo harbored and often hid. Feelings similar to what Raph never bothered to hide.

If an outsider were to compare the two brothers, the list of things they had in common would stop at _'mutant turtle'_ and _'driven.'_ Ironically enough, Leo knew their similarities were much more numerous. From their subtle quirks, to their passions, and their beliefs.

Leo believed that was one of the reasons he'd been able to locate Raph's spirit so easily along the Astral Plane. Their spirits, both alive with the need to understand and protect, even when there was nothing to fight.

The need was there, primitively so. Distinct and unavoidable.

It was something that both he and Raph shared, and it was so easy to start an argument, push for a fight, then bask in the thrumming energy he felt during and after. That excitement. The kind that made his heart hammer wildly and his vessels constrict. After putting up a wall and hiding behind the Leader-persona he'd created, pushing Raphael's buttons became an outlet all its own. Something that reminded him to feel alive. Something that allowed him to let go.

Even though he knew it was wrong, he pushed those buttons as often as he could. And he kept pushing them...

 _'Your form could use a little work.'_  
_'I don't want you leaving the Lair tonight.'_  
_'Master Splinter said he wants you to meditate. It might help you learn to control that temper of yours.'_  
_'Raphael, you're reckless and impulsive. One of these days, someone is going to get hurt.'_  
_'You never think about the consequences of your actions.'_

Words Leo never hesitated on using. Yet he would never waste them on Donatello or Michelangelo unless they were truly warranted.

Raphael, on the other hand- For Raphael, those words tumbled from Leo's mouth as easy as breathing. Some part inside him assigned those words to his brother long ago, and he unleashed them with or without warrant. He was perfectly aware of how his treatment of Raphael was different than that of his other brothers, yet he never bothered to change it. It was too easy to look down on him for being unbalanced, emotional, unthinking, reckless. And if he could do it all over again...-

If he could find a way to turn back time. If he could change his words, his methods, his entire line of thinking...

_'I'm sorry, Raph. Maybe I never said it enough. And maybe I wasn't there for you when you needed me, but you were always so physically strong and emotionally guarded. When something was wrong, you were quick to place blame, throw a punch, or run topside rather than try to talk. You were always quick to- No... You were talking. You tried. I just never listened. I was a terrible brother to you. A terrible brother, and an even worse leader. I failed you. I failed the family. But if I can, I want to make things right again. Before I let you walk out of here, I'll talk to you, and you'll talk back. And this time, I'll really listen. I promise. A closed mouth and open ears, I owe you that much and more, dear brother.'_

Leo's intent was simple enough. His resolve was firm. The only question was, would he be able to hold true to his promise? Or would he and his brother be depicted as foes under the pretense of _'old habits die hard'_?

Leonardo refused to give power to that thought. He loved his family; and Raph was part of that family. No matter the damage done or the depth of their separation, he refused to quit. He would strive to be there when he was needed, and with his heart in the right place, the correct tactics under his will, he would pull his family back together.

If any part of their bond was broken, he'd sell his soul to mend it. To stitch them back together again. To make the family whole once more.

He thought back to the encounter with Raphael on the roof of the hotel, right before Raph agreed to go along with him and the others.

Their conversation.

Raphael's slight concern. The askance if he'd been taking care of Mike and Don.

It was proof enough, Leo decided.

Raphael cared- not that there was ever a question of the matter. But he cared enough to ask if they were alright. Cared enough to humor them in this one-night-stand of a reunion.

Leo drew in a deep calming breath and latched onto that thought. _'Raphael has always cared. If he could just see the way Mikey gets- the forced anger he uses to cover the hurt, and even worse: the fake smiles... And if Raph could only see the way Don's been pulling away- Shell, it's like having two incomplete portions of Raph, but no Donnie or Mikey. And, still, no Raphael. And I'm not any better. -Dammit, Raph! If you'd just come home, everything could be normal again. Mikey would laugh, like he was laughing with you over his stale jokes. And Don would be his warm, calm, and subtly compassionate self again, like he's been all night. And me, I might get some genuine peace of mind. Because, honestly, even meditating is taking a toll on me. Do you know what it's like... to slip so deep into the Spirit World that it's hard to come back? Hard to coerce my own soul back into the body that hosts it?'_

Looking over his brother's sleeping form, Leo confessed internally.

_'Sometimes, I don't even want to come back. It never used to be that way, Raph, and I'm terrified. I know I have my own selfish motives for asking, but please come home. And stay home. I know I can be a bit of a hardass, but that's all I have to offer. I have an image to uphold. Responsibilities. The only time I let go of those responsibilities, is when I'm fighting with you. You're my brother. You're my obligation. But, you're also my friend. My life support.'_

Slowly, hesitantly, Leo placed a hand on one of Raphael's.

_'Your absence, it's put a lot of things in perspective for everyone. But mostly, I think it's opened my eyes to how right you were about everything. I can be incredibly selfish. But you let me be that way. You indulge me. And I need that indulgence. I need you. And I can only hope you need me as well.'_

Leo felt Raphael's hand move to grasp his own, as if offering assurance. And he smiled

"Enjoy your rest, Raph."


	39. Ch 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: Another short one (longer than the last). This chapter is Don's.

**CH 38**

* * *

_[Don]_

It was busy work, similar to that of a queen's drone in a hive. He was such a busy bee. Busy beaver? How did that expression go? Regardless, he was one busy turtle.

There never seemed a proper time to relax. There was always something to do, something that needed done, friends or family that required his assistance. And really, that was alright with him. Any notorious lack of activity spurned his mind in the worst way, and he would not allow himself to be idle.

The purple-banded reptile knew the repercussions well.

Ironically so, he often tried to multitask, which was a myth all its own. An impossibility. Because, even the simplest of tasks required 50% of the brain at any given time. Ergo, it was virtually impossible to do two or three, or even more things adequately. As a thought rattles through the mind, it is a single and _only_ a single thought; though it possibly branches off into others, it is all cognizant of one. One single element. One track. One line of thinking.

It could be described, that the brain itself is a house with several rooms. You might drift from one room to the other to complete a single task, and throughout the day, you'll visit most- if not all- rooms in the house. The brain is very much the same way, constantly taking information, relaying it throughout the various 'rooms' and eventually processing thought and action before making said action possible.

It is a lengthy modus operandi, one that Donatello understood well, yet he often challenged the cosmic rule. Despite his understanding of function and statistics, there was always that innate desire to accomplish multiple things at a time- and though there were drawbacks to having his attention divided, he often succeeded.

It was a matter of will and mental development. He knew this. He could draw a up a diagram or a color-coded chart and explain it all in great detail, but it would be a waste of time. Out of all his brothers, only he actually cared for the whys and hows, the nature of any and all components that made up the larger picture that everyone saw as a general vice.

According to Don, it wasn't enough to know that a computer had a power source and a button to turn it on and off (improperly). To understand it fully, it had to be dismantled, thoroughly investigated, and then put back together again. Holy Motherboard. Sister Circuit. Little things that made him smile when the rest of the world would sooner gawk or roll their eyes.

Don could fondly recall hours upon hours of reading and writing code...

 _'Oh...'_ His thoughts got away from him. _'Where was I?'_ It had happened again. His mind, wrapped up in a memory of a memory. His thoughts, so potent and strong that they could pull him from conscious reality and into something surreal. A world of equations, chemistry and physics. Quantum mechanics. Or even something as simple as a preliminary anamnesis.

It was something that rarely amounted to trouble, but it was certainly distracting. His focus could be primed on one subject, but the moment his attention began to drift, the entirety of his mind would corral around the new subject, which was partly why his lab at the Lair held so many projects he'd started but neglected to finish. His attention, so raptly caught on whatever appeal, was easily cut and pasted onto something else.

One moment, he's reading up on various psychological disorders, wondering if he might have an attention-related disorder; the next moment, he's reading a manual to a dishwasher he doesn't have- but the manual had been fascinating enough... until one of his brothers had called for him to fix an alarm clock or radio.

 _'Back to the present, Don,'_ the intelligent turtle mentally chided himself, blinking hard and trying to reign in his focus so that he could concentrate on the task at hand.

Raphael laid before him, sleeping soundly. Too soundly. Unresponsive to anything he said- not that he was speaking anything of importance. However, it was slightly odd, if not worrisome, that the emerald-skinned mutant failed to show the slightest disturbance at the physical contact Don exerted for his current task of examining his brother.

Really, there was really no immediate need for the impromptu checkup, but Don had been determined, adamant to at least have a look. He had to be sure that Raphael was healthy and safe with little to no anomalies.

He continued his observation with little strain.

From what he could tell, Raphael appeared to be in good health, aside from an increase in body temperature and some slightly swollen glands particularly in the lymphoid area of the throat; it was hardly a thing to worry over, considering the lack of fever- which usually meant a lack of infection. Every wound, some new and some old, had been well tended and healed. There was nothing remotely wrong.

This alone was considerable proof that wherever Raphael had been staying, someone had been taking care of him. Assisting him. Treating him.

For this, there was a slight pang of jealously, but Donatello tried to quell the swell of emotion. He forced himself to remain calm and collected. He kept his wits and ignored the negativity.

Because, he should be grateful; he should count his blessings and be glad that Raphael wasn't rotting in a ditch or strapped down awaiting dissection. And yet, he was discomforted by the idea of someone else being Raph's caretaker and doctor.

Someone else stitching the would-be gaping wounds. Wounds that, though healed, still beckoned curiosity.

Still, without being invasive or drawing blood, there was only so much Don could observe.

He, at least, managed a good look at Raphael's carapace, the way the plates had split and new ones were in the process of forming and shifting to bridge the slight gaps. A deformity in the making. A telltale sign of some phenomenal change and the body's adaptation to it.

In turtles of the non-mutated variety, such a change could be due to bacterial infections. It could also be caused by rapid growth due to changes in diet and habitat. And, while Raphael's physique had always been large and muscular, there was no mistaking the difference. His biceps alone had nearly doubled in girth, and every bit of him was rock hard, even without him flexing.

Raphael was clearly getting more than enough exercise, though the rapidness of muscle expansion did raise suspicions.

Anabolic steroids come to mind, but the intelligent turtle knew better than to make assumptions.

And when he'd done all he could with a simple physical evaluation, Don moved to inspect Raphael's gear. It had caught his attention early on, but he hardly found it something worthy of questioning when his missing brother was suddenly... not missing.

Now, he focused on the nuance of armor.

_'I sincerely doubt that Raphael salvaged or made this himself. And it fit him too well for him to have taken it from a human...'_

Picking up a piece of the armor, he took in the luxuriously padded interior, the cayenne-colored steel plates that were jointed together to allow full-ranged motion at the elbow crease, and it was finished off with adjustable straps of black leather with unnecessary embroidered designs.

_'Someone either put too much time or too much money into something with so little function.'_

It was peculiar, but that only raised more questions pertaining to where Raphael had gotten it.

When there was nothing else worthy of noting with said pieces of armor, Donatello set it aside and grabbed the strange belt Raph had removed prior to taking his rest.

The belt itself was odd in shape, comprised of 3 rings, a hidden enclosure, a 6-panel corefront, and added slots to accommodate Raph's sais.

As he turned the belt over in his hands for speculation, it was easy to notice the sudden heat that permeated his palms and fingers when he held the belt for too long.

An expression of surprise and curiosity took hold of his features, and he furthered his observation.

Whenever the underside of the belt wasn't making contact with his skin, it cooled. When it touched his leathery flesh, it gradually heated and the panels mutely radiated.

A chemical reaction.

Gamma radiation, however faint.

The possibilities began to run through the genius reptile's mind as he probed for a power source and tried to understand just how it worked; curiosity got the better of him and pulled him into a world his brothers would never understand. Mechanics and engineering. Something truly fundamental and necessary, yet completely undermined.

Looking over the belt, the device was fascinating- a radioactive, self-contained and self-generated heat source with an auto-pilot configuration...

But again, as fascinating as it was, it only brought more questions to the surface. Namely, why Raphael had it to begin with, and who could have made it for him.

More questions and no answers.

 _'Then again, if this device has a Plutonium-based powercell...'_ The thought was there, firmly planted. And he ran with it. _'It stands to reason that whoever made it required Plutonium. And Plutonium can't simply be bought from an EBAY auction site. They would have to go through the government or a major company that-'_

His thoughts came to an abrupt halt. His mind, for once, completely stifled. Subdued by a disbelief so strong it nearly put him into a state of shock.

Because on the underside of the belt near the juncture of the lower left panel, was a small hexagonal pattern and four familiar letters.

TGRI.

Quickly gathering his wits and putting the gear back into a pile near the sofa, Don sat back on his heals, thoughts jumbled and mind buzzing in an effort to put the pieces together.

_'Raph, where have you been? Where did you get this stuff? What are you involved in?'_

His thoughts raced. His heart drummed in a slow, hard rhythm.

When answers weren't forthcoming, he yearned for them even more. While he appeared outwardly composed, inside he was wrought with disarray.

It was only natural.

This was his domain. As the smart one- the Fix-It guy, he would need to put the pieces together and make sense of fragments. Create a single picture out of torn pieces of a million other works of art.

Turn nothing into a collage that made absolute and complete sense.

But he only had so many pieces to work with; he couldn't begin to decide what fit where, nor what the final construct would look like. There were no blueprints, no guided outline.

All he had, was his brother, some equipment, and an ouroboros of frustration.

_'Raph, if you'd just open up and tell me what's wrong, what's been going on... I could try to fix it. I could help. But you won't, will you? I know you, probably better than anyone else. You're stubborn. You'll try to keep it all in until whatever you're hiding threatens to tear you up. And then, when it becomes too strong and you can't hold it back any longer, you'll unleash it on anyone near you. You need an outlet. You need something to put you at ease. Usually, I could invite you to the garage until you've cooled off, but... that's not something that would work under these circumstances.'_


	40. Ch 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: This is Mikey's chapter. Enjoy.

**CH 39**

* * *

_[Mikey]_

Kneeling beside the sofa, forearms resting on the cushions and eyes focused on the unconscious occupant, the orange-masked turtle hummed softly, some strange and nearly tuneless compilation of a few different songs he'd managed to cram together without any thought other than the vaguely disinterested warp-write of _'It sounds good.'_ And so, his humming progressed, soft, quiet; an abstract art turned audible.

On any other day, under his own definition of normal circumstances, he'd belt out a more lively tune and throw out his limbs in an impressive dance routine; the entirety of his soul bare and upbeat and magnified with the intent to infect others with smiles.

But now was not the time for a rendition of Anarchy Club's song Boss Fight.

Now wasn't the time for tomfoolery.

For now, he savored the moment, the proximity of his brother. So close, and yet so far. _'I've missed you, bro. Like, you don't even know how much. It's been... lonely. Leo's got his head so far up the ass of Meditation, and Donnie spends a lot of time with Casey; it's weird... And I either visit April or stay at the Lair reading your Journals -y'know, all this when we're not busting our shells looking for you. I hope you're okay with us (me and Don, but mostly me) reading the Journals. I mean, when I read 'em, I feel closer to you. You've always had this secret world, and it seemed like no one was ever allowed in it. Like, you always had to be alone there. But, I don't want you to be alone. And I don't want to be alone either. Raph, we're bros. We're supposed to be there for each other. And with you gone, no one's there for anyone. And... I don't even wanna think about how Master Splinter feels. I think he blames himself more than the rest of us, but I know it wasn't his fault. It was all our faults. We pushed you to leave, and you just... didn't come back. But you're here now. You're here, and that's all that matters.'_

Understandably choked up, Michelangelo tried to keep as calm as he could.

But this wasn't his forte. He wasn't calm. He wasn't quiet. He wasn't anything of the sort. The entirety of his persona was built around loud and rambunctious, active and excitable. He was the dimwit, the knucklehead, the goofball, and the clown. That's what he was seen as, and that's what he allowed himself to be. But for now there was no time to string together jokes and puns. It was neither the time nor place to plot or pull a prank.

Now was a time for the orange-banded turtle to show that he could be more than a fool; he could be a good brother too.

From his position beside the couch, he watched over Raphael's sleeping form, keeping vigil. Because, more than anything, he wanted to be there when Raph woke up. Mike wanted to show his brother that he didn't have to be alone. That was the whole point of brotherhood. To know that someone would always have your back (or shell).

He'd held his post, stationary, for an hour. An hour of private time with Raph. An hour of relative and semi-restless silence, save for the occasional bout of humming that tapered off and gave way to the sounds of breathing.

An entire hour. Sixty minutes. 3,600 seconds of the young turtle holding his unforgiving bladder, but it was worth it.

He wouldn't waste a single moment when his brother could awaken at any given time.

And so, Mikey held his bladder, ignored his mighty need for urinary release, and stared hard, unblinking for as long as possible. Eyes wide open, beyond burning from excessive dryness. As if merely closing his eyes would make the emerald-skinned turtle disappear...

Abracadabra.

Poof.

Houdini.

Now you see him. Now you don't.

Like a cruel magic act. A work of fiction. A mirage. Like a poor punchline to an even worse joke.

_Knock, Knock._   
_Who's there?_   
_Not Raph._

The very idea caused discomfort in the pit of the youngest turtle's stomach. That discomfort reached up into his chest and gripped his heart. He felt the worst kind of ill but he dutifully ignored the internal aches. Because there were more important things for him to focus on.

Even now, the orange-banded ninja was mentally replaying the events of the night, trying to ingrain them deeply into his skull. He wanted every moment and every memory of Raphael to be perfectly clear, borderline photographic. His eyes traced over the rough and leathery flesh, the bulbous contours and musculature, and most importantly... the serene expression on his face as he slept.

Raphael had never been an early riser, but he'd never been such a sound sleeper either. In fact, it was odd that he could remain so still, undisturbed despite the presence of another. It was unnatural, but a small selfish voice in the back of Mikey's mind reasoned that... if Raphael was sleeping, at least he wasn't getting up and leaving.

There was some comfort in that fact, however slight.

 _'Bro, I know it doesn't mean much... but... don't go. Okay?'_ Michelangelo forced a small smile that looked a little too sad and out of place, accented by tear-stained eyes: something that would forever go unseen. _'Don't leave me again. I already promised not to prank you. I said sorry. I'll try really hard not to get on your nerves. You-You don't even have to go back to the Lair if you don't want to. You can stay with April or Casey; I'm sure they won't mind. We can visit you every day... unless you need your space. Or you can visit us! Yeah, and I bet you miss your Shell Cycle. She's all alone with no one to ride her. And... Oh, maybe... like, since you're still patrolling the city and stuff- Maybe we can do that together. Please? I know you're sleeping. You're such a tired turtle. Sleepy, sleepy. But maybe I'll ask when you wake up. Maybe you'll say yes. Please? If not... I just...'_

"Raphie, take me with you."


	41. Ch 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: A short Raph-Chapter and then we progress!

**CH 40**

* * *

_[Astral Plane / Spirit World]_

Raphael's mind was swept with color, a true beauty to behold. The elemental manifestation of enlivened passion and muted nobility. A collision of impossibility and reality.

Something wondrous.

Vibrant reds and swirling purples and blues. Living atmosphere. But Raphael could only get a a glimpse if the trailing colors... because those familiar white walls continued to taunt him.

Once again, paper became his own personal hell.

This dome. This shell.

Paper-steel.

The very cage he used to write his personal demons had become his own prison.

He looked through the hole in the rounded roof and stared at the beauty beyond. Like always, there was the overwhelming desire to escape, but there was also the understanding of futility.

His gaze moved to his etched name, but it was lighter than he remembered, not even red: an echo of what it once was. The name, it was fading, deteriorating. Part of him wanted to dust his knuckles against the steel-paper walls and repaint the name. Before it was gone.

Before it was lost.

Before he lost himself.

The idea was there.

He considered it.

But before he could affirm the action, he noticed that his feet... felt warm... and wet. Looking down, his breath hitched; his heart seized for a moment before beginning to throb irregularly in his chest.

Around his feet, an impossibility. A glow. Liquid. Light. A nightmare that somehow felt more real- real enough to steal his breath from his lungs. He stared at the watery mess of brightness in both horror and disbelief. Then he tried to step out of the puddle of light, but it only spread wider and wider, taunting him.

Panic took hold.

He had to get out.

He couldn't breathe.

That hole in the ceiling, he wanted to go through it. But the dome that had been much too small for comfort suddenly seemed so much bigger.

The walls, somehow so much wider in circumference. The ceiling, too high.

He felt like an insect in a jar. A decorative figure in a snow globe.

Trapped.

There was no escape.

 _'Gotta get out. Before... Before...'_ He had no way of knowing what was coming, but a feeling of dread rippled through him just as the neon waters beneath his feet rippled at his slightest movement.

The puddle, so bright, so warm, rippling... It was going to swallow him. It glowed impossibly. Bright gold liquid sucking him inch by inch.

It was so gradual, but when it was up to his ankles, there was no denying what was happening.

And, not knowing what else to do, he screamed. Wordless. Desperate. He cried out in inarticulate agony.

Someone had to hear him, save him from his nightmare.

It was too real. Too warm. Too bright.

Throwing away his pride - _'What good is pride if I'm fuckin' dead?!'_ -he screamed for help.

Help from someone brave. "Leonardo, fuck! Leo!"

But Leo did not come to his aid. Instead, the living blue swirls in the skies above began to swell into something massive and cloud-like; then, once they were full, the cloud began to rain big fat globs of blue ink. Right through the hole and into the dome, joining the liquid glow and staining it from gold to green.

Raph placed his hand against the wall for support, though there was little relief in this.

His heart was hammering wildly, as if trying to escape his chest. His fingers flexed uselessly, wanting to fight and unfightable foe. But there was little he could do, and he didn't want to know what would happen if he were to be swallowed up by the luminous ale.

So, once again, he called for help. His own voice, loud, gruffness softened by desperation.

Help from someone smart. "Donatello, hey! Donnie!"

But Don did not come to his aid. Instead, those purple living swirls in the skies above swam closer, morphed into something snakelike and slithered through the hole in the roof. Once it hit the puddle, unlike the blue ink it did not meld with the other colors; instead, it remained solid and snakelike. A set of beady black eyes formed from nothing and its face split to reveal gangly jowls. It hissed, coiled back, and shot forward. Raph released an indignant sound of surprise and just barely managed to sidestep the serpentine strike.

This prison had been mostly safe until now. Now, he was being attacked from within. Something was terribly wrong.

One last time, he shouted for help.

Help from someone agile."Michelangelo, dammit! Mikey!"

But Mike did not come to his aid. And unlike the colors purple and blue, no orange made itself known.

And to Raph, the absence of the color was worse than if its presence had tried to harm him.

The puddle was getting deeper- or, perhaps he was sinking. Either way, he felt the neon wetness licking up his calves.

He looked at the wall, hoping to find solace in his name. Something to hold onto in his moment of horror.

But the wall had been wiped clean. Not a smudge left to be found. His name, gone, replaced by white.

The purple serpent struck out again, and Raph stumbled out reach of its bite.

He looked skyward again. Then, as if in answer to an unasked prayer, he heard a voice, but he couldn't distinguish the words or speaker.

Still, a voice meant that someone was there. And that meant help; it had to. Raphael's anxiety was rising faster than this mythical liquid neon. He latched onto his assumption that help was available. He latched on and held tight.

He had to believe that someone had come for him.

Without a second thought, he crouched, coiling the muscles and joints in his legs despite the engulfing liquid light, and with a jolt he sprung upwards, jumping as high as he could and reaching out towards that torn opening between the sheets of steel-paper.

At the crest of his jump, he was just inches shy of reaching freedom. He closed his eyes tight, preparing for the short fall back to the bright pool below. But he did not fall. Gravity did not take him in its unforgiving grasp and throw him down.

Instead, he felt two hands catch around his wrist, gripping firmly, holding him up as the rest of his large mutant body dangled like bait on a hook.

His heart pounded- in fear or relief, he couldn't tell. His temples pulsed with stress, but he easily disregarded the minor annoyance.

Raphael closed his eyes tight, trying to ignore the conflict within and remember the threat of liquid light beneath him. While he'd never admit it aloud, the bright puddle terrified him.

Darkness, he could handle. But light- specifically a light he could literally drown in, that was pretty fucked up.

With a sharp intake of breath, he found his voice, speaking to his savior. Pleading. "Just... don't let me go. Don't leave me alone. Dammit, don't let me fall." As he spoke his voice was strained. He kept his eyes shut as he was pulled from dome.

He was finally out. Finally. Liberated.

Freedom, something he'd given up on, was his to claim. Something that found him and offered a mercy he probably didn't deserve.

He opened his eyes and mouth to verbalize his gratification, to give an awkward thanks to whomever had come to his aid.

But the moment his vision rested on his apparent rescuer, his mouth clamped shut. His insides iced over. His mind fought to make sense of what he was seeing and what had transpired.

Because, Raphael was staring at something -rather, someone- and that someone... was just a little too familiar for comfort.

In all honesty, Raphael had expected a brother. He'd expected his Master Shredder. And to a lesser extent, he could even understand if his rescuer had been the rat he'd come to loathe, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight that met him now. For, standing just a few feet away, arms crossed, was another reptile. Another turtle. With emerald skin and a red mask securely knotted in place.

Raph stared, confused and disbelieving, at his warped duplicate- because, this _thing_ was what Raph expected to see in a fun house mirror. Its body was disproportionate, too large, covered in scars with leathery skin stretched too tight.

The spirit-creature cracked its neck and rolled its shoulders, showing off its grotesquely twisted form before pointing to the red mask it wore. Its mouth moved, as if to speak, but whether or not words came out, Raphael couldn't tell. White noise filled his ears and the vibrant colors around him gradually dimmed, turned technicolor and eventually gray. Black and white. A comic book, or a silent film. Again, Raphael couldn't tell. Because even that much was beginning to fade.


	42. Ch 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH 41**

* * *

Coming back from those alleged ' _dreams_ ' was always like swimming. There's suffocating pressure from all angles. There's the brief feeling of being grounded, feet planting firmly on the ocean floor before kicking off. Then, there's a feeling of weightlessness. The constriction of deflating lungs that ache for oxygen. There's the bright light up above, a fight through the murky waters and up towards the surface beyond. And, ultimately, there's a rush. A gasp. A hacking cough and a stark contrast between where you were and where you are now.

From below, to above, to here and now.

That initial shock, that instinctual sharp pull for air, that's what Raphael always felt when coming from that world into the conscious one.

Iridium eyes snapped open, and for a moment, Raphael had to remind himself to breathe. Once that much was successfully accomplished, he allowed his vision to focus and he slowly moved to sit up and take in his surroundings. Gone were the vivid colors- or lack there of- replaced by the familiar setting of April's living room.

For a moment, his only thought was: _'Damn wallpaper... doesn't compliment the carpet.'_ It was an odd thought, but it plagued him for a solid three, four, five seconds before anything else began to register.

Reaching a hand to the juncture between his neck and shoulder, Raphael pressed and massaged out a kink before rising to his feet. Almost systematically, he turned and fluffed and repositioned the couch cushions before moving to turn off the lamps.

Albeit slightly altered, it was routine. A bit of mundane activity to keep him grounded. A mental checklist predominating action. Despite the fact that he was not in his normal stead, his morning rituals were almost a necessity. Some part of his mind vaguely wandered to the pill planner at the Infirmary. His meds, unobtainable. A task he couldn't finish. The thought was unsettling as he mentally envisioned each one. The little white and yellow ones. The oval ones. The grainy tablets. The capsules. The little round ones that had a faint but almost pleasant smell... He knew each one by size, shape, color and texture. While he couldn't pinpoint them by name or intent, he knew the feel of them in his palm or against his tongue.

For now, though, he would have to go without them. The thought alone had him grinding his teeth together at the unfamiliar stress.

An unfinished task. Something so simple but out of reach. If he'd been at Central, his morning rituals would have been fully carried out, and he'd be on his way to either a banter-filled breakfast with his human-master, or perhaps going to greet his black-clad brethren prior to a training session.

Waking up here rather than the place he'd almost come to see as his home, everything was off kilter and strange.

But, he was more than a creature of habit. He was also a ninja. And by Master Shredder's words, 'A ninja is nothing, if not adaptable.'

The recollection of those words caused the mutant's mouth to twitch in a would-be semblance of a smile, but he forced his face into something more calm and borderline blank. An easy feat. Because, he would adapt. He would carry on. And he would bide his time as necessary.

Without much more thought, he sought his gear, piled up at the foot-end of the sofa. With steady hands, on came the RTG belt, followed by the unique pads. It felt good to gear up again. It was routine. Practiced and easy, thoughtless. He almost wished for his insignia-emblazoned scarf or bandana for the sake of completion, but now wasn't the time to bear that symbol. Not before the eyes of the other reptiles.

For a moment, he allowed his mind to wander. _'Wonder what kinda fit they'd all have if they saw it. Would somethin' as simple as a bandana make 'em see me as an enemy? Or would they look past it?'_ He snorted derisively at his own musings.

He cracked his neck and allowed himself the luxury of rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His body felt rested and ready to go, but his mind had an almost heavy, foggy feeling to it. It was odd and discomforting but tolerable all the same; so he ignored it for now.

A yawn took him by surprise and he stifled it behind a large 3-fingered hand.

_'Wonder what they're up to. My brothers, they-'_

His thoughts were effectively interrupted as a brief but sharp pain tore through his head, striking lightning-fast and disappearing just as quick. It was peculiar and unsettling, and for a moment he searched his thoughts for reason. However, all that came to mind was the almost haunting image of his own monstrous duplicate, the one that bore a red mask and had tried to speak.

It had only been a dream, for sure, but it had felt so real, and it raised so many questions...

For instance, he had to wonder what the other turtle had been trying to say. A threat? A taunt? A warning? Perhaps it was nothing to worry over, but he had an ill feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn't help thinking that it meant something colossal.

He drew in a breath, trapped the air in his chest before blowing it out, depressing his lungs and releasing the tension with it. Decidedly feeling a bit better and opting to ignore the mental image of the duplicate turtle, he turned his attention to a nearby clock.

The neon-red letters beamed at him almost mockingly: _12:45._ A glance at the window and the light pouring in only continued to spell out an awful truth that hadn't even occurred to him until that exact moment.

Staring at rays of light that beamed in through the window, the particles of dust just barely visible to the naked eye, realization washed over Raphael like a bucket of cold water.

Gone were all traces of sleep or morning musings, replaced by full awareness, high alert, and complete unease.

"The fuck?" the emerald-skinned turtle hissed under his breath, abruptly filled with agitation. He tried to remember falling asleep. He tried to assess how long he'd slept. He tried to understand why he hadn't woken up with the natural hype of his circadian rhythm.

Frustrated at his own lack of answers, he turned just in time to catch Michelangelo almost skipping in with a wide smile stretching between his cheeks.

_'Fuck, I ain't in the mood ta deal with-'_

"G'morning, Raphie- er, uh... Good afternoon?" The orange-banded turtle's smile morphed into a grin as he bounced on the balls of his feet. "Hope you slept well! Man, I was beginning to think you'd just sleep the day away. Give a bro a heart attack, why don't ya! I mean, sheesh!" His loud tone and animated body language spoke of his energy, but the tired gleam in his eyes depicted a notable lack of sleep. For him to be so zealous and active after staying up all night, he was surely tapping into his reserves to keep up the peppy attitude.

But Raph was too preoccupied to take note of that; his focus rested on the haunting message sent to him by the neon numbers of the digital clock. "Why the fuck didn't anyone wake me up?" Raph grumbled, the events of the previous night eluding him as he focused on the here-and-now. And right now, his concern was the time.

Tick-tock.

Seconds, minutes, and hours.

Too many hours.

Tick. Tock. Tick, Tock.

A pendulum. A metronome. Some rhythmic ticking that sounded in Raph's head, offering him a sense of dread and forebode.

His breath came in more sharply and out twice as fast, unsteady, nerves fraying. In fear, or frustration, or something else. There was no definitive label for the white hot volcanic emotions that threatened to blow their top. All Raphael knew for certain, was that his body was betraying his better judgement and surrendering to a carnal surge within.

In his head: _Tick-tock. Tick-tock._ His mind trying to warn him.

In his chest: _Thuh-duhn, bah-bump._ His heart beating frantically.

He could feel a small tremor course through his body, but he fought down the sensation.

Stress was egging him on, pushing him in a direction he didn't want to be in.

He needed to calm down. Deep breaths. He needed to let go of the worry, center his thoughts, and blank everything else.

Under many circumstances, this would be simple enough, but at the moment, even breathing was difficult. Thinking hurt. The only thought he could fully register without a shooting pain running rampant through his skull was that it was ten kinds of taboo, being away from Central at this hour.

_'Shredda's gonna be so pissed. He's still a bit sore from the last time I came in late, and last night, I didn't come back at all! Fuck, what was I thinkin'?! Dammit, dammit, dammit, da-'_

Unaware of his brother's plight, Mikey gave a sheepish grin and shrugged his shoulders, averting his gaze and trying to play it off as something casual. "Sorry, bro. Guess I should've got you up for breakfast, huh? I mean, yeah, I tried, but you wouldn't budge! I even made Donnie come and check on you because I thought you might have slipped into a coma! Pizza overdose, haha!" The tension felt by the young turtle was obvious, but he still managed a small laugh in an attempt to maintain his jovial persona.

Only capable of primarily focusing on the late hour, Raph drew himself to full height and twisted his face into an expression of abhorrence. He pointed towards the window and barked: "See how fuckin' bright it is outside? I shoulda been gone hours ago. And here you are, talkin' about breakfast. Typical Michelangelo, thinkin' with yer stomach..." The words came too easy, taking absolutely no thought. Insults. Snarky tones and a harsh bite behind the verbal lashing. But the moment the words left his mouth, his head seemed to clear. He backpedaled until he felt his calves bump the couch behind him. Guilt flooded him instantaneously; he hadn't meant what he said; the word-vomit had come without his consent. Closing his eyes, he drew a deep breath and prepared an apology, but the words wouldn't come, stuck at the tip of his tongue like flies on sticky paper.

Standing before him, Mikey's eyes were wide and fighting to dam up the waterworks. "I just thought... " His words trailed off as he continued to stare at his older brother. A sudden realization came over him, and he acted on it. With his tears effectively suppressed, the young turtle feigned the emotion he nurtured in his brother's absence. He made a conscious effort to straighten his own posture, square his shoulders, slide his feet apart for better balance, and then curl his hands into fists, perfectly mimicking Raphael's own stance. Then, almost empowered by the offensive position, Mikey found his voice, firm and assertive as he said: "You don't mean that. None of it. I can see it in your eyes, bro. I know that look. That's the _'Oh, shit, I'm sorry'_ look."

Conflicted but unyielding, Raph stared at his younger brother. "Michelan-"

"It's Mikey, Raph. Call me Mikey. And, it's okay. I forgive you. For everything." As his words concluded, Michelangelo watched his brother's face smooth out while trepidation faded. Only when he was certain the dynamics of his words were fully processed did he move forward and wrap his arms around Raph in a careful hug. "Family means that forgiveness will always be given, even if it isn't asked. Raphie, you're family. We'll all forgive you, no matter what. But, this time, we're the ones who messed up. So, can you forgive us?" Pulling away from the one-sided hug Mike looked at Raph to gauge his reaction.

And Raph gave a small sad smile, aggression abated. "Ya got it all wrong," he said, voice soft and all traces of the pending explosion gone, melted away like ice cream in the summertime. "Ya guys messed up, yeah, but that ain't why I left."

Hearing this, Mike's heart thumped a little harder in anticipation. He and the others all had their own theories, but none of them suspected that Raph might volunteer an answer of his own. Taking this as his chance to find out, he prompted: "Raphie, why did you leave?" He had to ask. He had to know. He had to find out. Directly from Raphael, dammit, Mikey was going to get the answer to the question that had been plaguing them all for months.

Then... "It was me who messed up."

Michelangelo visibly deflated. Because, he should have expected that. In fact, it was so expected, so Raph-like, that he had to clench his teeth and tighten his jaw to keep from laughing. Because it was funny, in a way, that after all this time, despite the obvious changes, Raphael was still the same turtle with the same expected responses: the self-proclaimed martyr.

"Ya gotta understand, it wasn't gonna be like this, Michelangelo."

"Mikey," the orange-banded sibling tried to correct, but his correction was ignored as the older pressed on.

"I was gonna come back. I wanted to, but-" Raph's sentence came to a grinding halt as his eyes flickered to the doorway, catching movement.

The blue-masked ninja's entrance was silent as per usual, but for how quickly Raphael took notice, a herd of elephants might as well have run a stampede through the room. Leo's own set of steel-colored eyes caught sight of his younger brothers, and he gave a respectable nod in place of a proper greeting as he bypassed the two in favor of obtaining a pen from the fireplace mantle. When the others shot him an inquisitive glance, he gestured to the writing utensil and explained: "April asked for it."

Raphael visibly tensed, his mind conjuring up images of an injured rookie Foot allegedly attacked by the human female some time ago. His mind still struggled to wrap around imagery, but there was nothing to negate it. With a hardened glare, he couldn't help asking, "April? She's here?"

Unaware of Raph's additional discontent, Mikey smiled broadly and replied. "Yeah, bro, it's her apartment, and she's been back for, like, forever."

"She got in two hours after you fell asleep," Leo amended. "After giving a few interviews at last night's charity event, she wanted to write a few notes, and Don offered to help check the validity of collected statements from corporal advisers." He held up the pen to punctuate his statement. With that, he took a few steps towards the doorway, stopping halfway there and looking over his shoulder at his siblings. "Oh, and Raph, Casey went to his place and will be back shortly. He said he needed to pick up something for you. When he returns, he's also supposed to bring you a visitor."

Curiosity piqued, Raphael couldn't help the query. "Casey got me something? Like, a present? That bonehead," he said, but the small smirk was unmistakable. "And, what's dis about a visitor?"

Leo caught Raph's expression and returned it with a smirk of his own. "The visitor, I believe his name is Carl."

Raph's expression turned to one of confusion. "Doesn't ring a bell."

Mikey, seeing an opportunity, butted in, clapping a hand against his unmasked brother's shell before chiming in, "Oh, you know Carl! Big Carl, the construction worker. Looks kinda like this!" He held his arms away from his body to simulate added girth and puffed out his cheeks. Then he took a few waddling steps. "Big Carl! Looks like a beach ball with hands and feet!"

"Mikey!" Leo chastised, turning to fully face his youngest brother. "Don't insult him; he's a friend of Raph's."

"He's a friend of McDonald's!" Mikey countered. "And Taco Bell. And KFC. And Wendy's. And-"

"He is a dignified worker with a slight weight problem!"

"Yeah, as in... he doesn't _wait_ to eat! In fact, he probably skips the process of cooking a burger and just eats the kangaroo!"

"Mikey, burger is beef, which is from cows."

"Not the kind they serve around here, bro! Look it up! They totally do kangaroo meat as a substitution; it's cheaper, and no one knows the difference!"

Raph stood and watched the back and forth between the eldest and youngest turtle. He chuckled at their antics before raising his own voice above theirs. "So, his name was Carl? I called him Hobo-Joe. He's comin'?"

Blinking awkwardly and pulling himself from the joke of an argument, Leo gave a nod and cleared his throat. "Yeah, Casey's bringing him over. If you'd like, we could even make another night of it, but I would have to inform Master Splinter so that he doesn't worry. And of course, we could always order more pizz-"

"CARL WILL EAT ALL THE PIZZA!" Mikey whined loudly, pressing both hands to the sides of his face in a spontaneous imitation of Macaulay Culkin.

It was Raph who cut in then. "Hey, don't be puttin' the cart before the horse; I won't be stayin' another night." But his words seemingly went unheard as Leo once again jumped in to stop Mikey's unnecessary rudeness towards the pending guest.

Their back and forth continued for several little trades of reason and nonsense, and ultimately, Leo gave in. "Fine, Mikey. Get all the teasing out of your system now, because if you behave ill towards Raph's friend, you will be making a solo trek back to the Lair and remain there until I say otherwise."

"Pffft, you wouldn't do that to me, bro," Mike responded without missing a beat. "You know I have terrible Raphie-withdrawals, and I'm still recovering!" As if to prove a point, he pounced at the emerald-skinned turtle and wrapped his arms around him tightly. He pressed his beak to Raph's cheek in a poor imitation of a human's kiss before pulling back and saying: "Oh, behave, baby" in his best Austin Powers' voice.

Caught off guard by the sudden attack, Raph's balance was compromised and he found himself sandwiched between his high-spirited sibling and the sofa. His face was scrunched up in distaste as he fought to quell the momentary swell of aggravation. With a forced air of calm, he carefully removed the younger reptile from himself. Then, when he spoke, he made sure his voice was loud and clear, leaving no room for question or misunderstanding. "Guys, I said I'd come fer pizza. I've done that and more. It's been fun, but I ain't stayin' any longer than I have to. I'll stay ta get Casey's present, and I'll see Hobo-Joe, but then I gotta split."

Michelangelo fidgeted but remained wordless; his jovial mood suddenly evaporated.

Leo looked at Raphael with concern. "Raph, it's early in the afternoon. The sun is out. There's no way you can-"

Raph's iridium gaze connected with Leo's own brotherly stare. "If ya gonna try and boss me around, now ain't the time ta do it, Fearless. I ain't an idiot. I ain't gonna do nothin' stupid. But if I say I gotta go, I'm gonna go. And if anyone tries ta stop me-"

"Raph. Listen to me. I promise, no one is going to stop you if you need to go." Leo moved in, deciding it would be best to speak in closer quarters. His voice both calm and sincere, he continued. "We're not trying to trick you or trap you. You're our brother; we care about you. We just want you to be safe and happy." His eyes, two pools of pent up emotion behind a pane of glass, he held his brother's stare. "We'll give you space. We'll let you do whatever you need to. But I have one favor to ask, and that is all." He drew a deep breath through his nostrils before finalizing: "When you were gone, we had no way of knowing if you were okay, if you were cold or hungry, or even if you were alive. Raph, that hurt more than you can possibly imagine. It affected all of us. All I'm asking of you, is for some kind of contact. A visit. A phone call. A letter. Some sign that you're alright..."

"We can patrol the city together," Mikey added, voice oddly quiet, hopeful, almost desperate.

Raph's gaze found the floor, and for the longest moment he was silent. Then, "I'll think about it," was the only answer he gave before he glanced at the coffee table, grabbed up the remote, and moved to get more comfortable on he sofa, turning on the television and flicking through the channels. When he realized that both of his brothers were staring, he rolled his eyes and snapped: "Well, I'm gonna be here fer a while, ain't I? Fearless, get the pen ta April. Knucklehead, I think ya said somethin' about food." Flipping through channels with one hand, he rapped the knuckles of his other hand against the abdominal plates of his plastron. "Kinda hungry. Got anything good?"

"Cereal!" Mikey piped cheerfully. "Dude, bro, man, trust me! I can cook if you want, but I bet you haven't had your favorite cereal in, like, months. We got the sugary kind, and it's got a prize inside and everything!"


	43. Ch 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: This chapter and the next couple will be short. They were drafted and written all as one with line/break/spaces in between the scenes, but after editing, I decided to split the scenes into individual short chapters. One good thing about that, is that a few updates will be close together. And, here pretty soon, we'll finally get some plot progression going.

**CH 42**

* * *

The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air played with the volume on low.

Two plastic bowls, rested on the coffee table, each partly filled with milk and a silver spoon. Beside the bowls was a now-empty box that had been unopened until the two hungry turtles got their 3-fingered mits on it.

Raphael wiped a dribble of milk from his chin with the back of his hand while Mikey allowed his own little mess of calcium to rest around his mouth. When Raph gave him an awkward glance, Mikey simply responded with: "What? It's totally a milk mustache, dude."

To that, the older turtle rolled his eyes but let out a good natured chuckle all the same. "Hey, Mikey," he said suddenly, capturing the younger mutant's attention in an instant. Once those blue eyes were focused solely on him, he asked: "Did ya hear 'bout that scarecrow who got an award?"

Mikey looked puzzled. "No?"

A sly grin slowly crossed Raph's face as he said: "He was... outstanding in the field."

Mikey stared blankly for a whopping three seconds before he burst into a fit o giggles. "I get it! _Outstanding_. And, _out... standing_!" His body shook with the force of his amusement, and Raph placed a firm hand on the lip of the younger turtle's carapace to steady him. "Heh, thanks, bro. You're the best. Now, I've got a joke for you! -Did I ever tell you about the time I played Strip Poker with a nudist?"

Raph shook his head, waiting for some goofy answer or another.

But all Mikey supplied was: "Okay, it's not a joke, but it's funny. I was playing with Donnie, only, it was regular Poker, but I like to think of it as Strip Poker because we were totally naked anyways."

Raph shook his head. "Nice try, but it don't work that way."

"How would you know, Raphie?"

"I've played."

Mike's eyes bulged and his face split into a wide, excitable grin. "Details, bro. Details."

"Ya sure, Knucklehead? I played with Hobo-Joe."

Mike's excitement vanished, replaced by a look of sheer terror. "Ughhh. You're serious? Like, what's he-? How does-?" He frowned in a mix of disgust and confusion before finally voicing: "Is he like blubber? What's his boobs look like? Because, he's totally got man-boobs. Do they jiggle? I mean, like, we've all seen Casey shirtless, but he's all... flat and-"

Raph barked out his own bit of laughter before stating: "I'm just yankin' yer chain. Gosh, you're gullible."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"If ya look in the dictionary under the word _'g_ _ullible'_ , there's literally a picture of ya."

Mikey crossed his arms and smirked, silent for a moment while he tried to flaunt some form of imaginary triumph. "Dude, that joke is so old."

To which, Raph countered: "Yo momma's so old."

And Mikey: "Oh, yeah? Well, your face!"

"You're such a goofball."

"And you're a muscle-butt!"

"Shell-fer-brains."

"Dildo!"

"Mikey!" Raph gasped out indignantly, caught up in the moment as he nearly choked on surprise and laughter. Nearly doubled over, he guffawed until his eyes watered.

The younger reptile just continued to smile broadly, a warm feeling spreading in his chest as he inwardly rejoiced the fact that Raphael -for the first time in ages- had finally addressed him as _Mikey_. For a moment, he honestly wanted to comment on it, but after a brief ponder, he decided that drawing attention to the small fact would likely be counter-productive. So, instead, he opted to give playful punch to Raph's arm and stuck his tongue out in jest.

Sitting back comfortably and stretching out, Raph's amber gaze rolled up to look at the ceiling as a gentle smile tugged at his lips. "I've missed this," he whispered under his breath. The confession had been quiet but monumental.

If possible, Mikey's own smile brightened even more.


	44. Ch 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH 43**

* * *

With a bit of bribery to his youngest brother, Leo had finally managed to get some time with Raph during an episode of Seinfeld, though he kept quiet during the show and only spoke during commercials: an attempt at some form of etiquette and respect.

And, as a mundane insurance advertisement drew on, Leonardo turned to look at Raph with his usual stoicism long gone and replaced by brotherly affection. "We've all been ecstatic to have you around, Raph."

"S'been alright, I guess," Raph responded simply, reaching a hand up to scratch lightly at his neck.

Leo hesitated, then- "I hate to bring this up so soon, but have you given any thought about-"

"The television," Raph interrupted, causing Leo to frown. With a sigh, the emerald-skinned mutant elaborated. "You're worried 'cause I ain't going back with you guys, right? Ya want some kind of assurance that I'm alright. Well, check the NEWS. I know you guys watch it. Keep an eye on that, and I'll make sure ya get a weekly message so ya know I ain't croaked or been captured. Fair enough?"

Leo closed his eyes and drew in slow calming breaths, trying to grasp the words he needed. "I suppose so. But I was hoping for something more along the lines of a face-to-face encounter."

Raph sighed heavily and propped his feet up on the coffee table, crossing his ankles and lacing his fingers behind his head. "Leonardo, ya ain't my leader, alright? If you say ' _jump_ ,' odds are: I ain't gonna jump. It ain't gonna be that way. If ya want somethin', come right out and say it; then, I'll consider it, but I ain't makin' no promises. I ain't a damn puppet."

"Alright, Raph, but what if I said that I was worried about my little brother? My brother... who has been gone for months and won't tell me where he's been or what he's been up to? What if I said that I miss him?"

Raphael fell silent for a moment, and it had nothing to do with the fact that the commercial break had ended. He closed his eyes tightly and searched for the response he needed to give. "I'd say..." he paused, hesitating. Then, opening his eyes and locking his gaze with that of the older turtle, he continued. "I'll make it work. Alright? I'll try ta see ya. I'll make the effort, okay?"

Leo nodded, watching his brother's eyes to gauge his sincerity. "What about Don and Mike? They've been a mess without you."

"They're fine, Leader-Boy. They got you. They got the rat. They got each other."

Without missing a beat, Leonardo cut in: "And who do you have, Raph?" When he didn't get an immediate answer, he pressed on. "You've got me. You always will. Remember that. I know I haven't been the best brother or leader, but-"

"Don't ya _dare_ start that self-depreciation shit," Raph griped, his voice taking on a frustrated note. "You're a fuckin' ninja, and a damn good one at that. You've got this unbreakable code of honor. You've got a family that looks up to ya. And you still can't be satisfied with what ya got. It's pretty damn annoying. Mr Perfect. Splinta Junior. Still ain't happy with himself. Oh, poor-fuckin'-you. Boo-freakin'-hoo. I'm tired of hearin' about it."

"Raph-"

"No, you listen here, Leo, and you listen good." Raph's eyes narrowed into slits as he turned to lean closer to the blue-banded turtle, their beaks inches apart. "Ya got it made. You've gone yer whole life as close to the limelight as possible, being favored by yer sensei, takin' up the leader-role, and ya go through battle after fuckin' battle with your honor still intact. Why ain't that enough fer ya?" As he spoke Raphael's voice rose in pitch and his breathing picked up. A familiar bitterness began to cloud his judgement, but he reigned control. He scooted back on the couch, needing to put a little distance between himself and the older reptile. For a moment, it hurt to breathe. His head throbbed, and he wanted to continue his venting, but he held it back.

Now was not the time for him to lose his cool.

Leo was quiet for a few beats, working to digest what had been said while letting Raphael calm down. Then, "I'd give it all up," he said, voice slightly strained. "For you. For the family. Nothing else matters to me anymore. Not being leader, not my honor, and-"

"Don't make me hit ya, Leo. For fuck's sake, just don't. I ain't gonna be here long, so... can't we just... shut up... and-"

"And, enjoy each other's company?" Leo asked, attempting to finish his brother's sentence.

Wordlessly, Raphael gave a curt nod.

After that, the two sat in companionable silence and watched the show play out.

Then, when the sitcom came to a close, Raphael surprised Leo with a quiet proposition. "The roof. The hotel roof. I'll try ta meet with ya there. Face to face, okay? I don't know when, or how often, but I'll see ya. And we can spar, or talk, or patrol, or whatever."

"Just you and I? Or, are Mike and Don welcome too?"

Raph didn't answer. Instead, he just took on a deeply contemplative look uncharacteristic of the hothead Leo had grown up with.

Minutes passed in silence, which started out comfortable enough but quickly grew stale and awkward.

Another show came on television.

Raphael handed the remote to Leo, wordlessly giving him authority to change the channel if he chose to. It was an odd gesture, seemingly meaningless, but it made the blue-masked ninja smile. Because, while anyone else might have thought nothing of the offer and simply changed the channel, Leo was able to see it as an act of credence.

The channel remained unchanged for several minutes to come, until Raphael shifted restlessly, growing bored from physical inactivity; only then did Leo idly begin flipping through the channels, stopping as a NEWS report played out.

_"And I am here with yet another citizen who claims to have been saved by a green vigilante-"_

Hearing the reporter speak, both turtles exchanged grins that varied in degree.

Raph was the first to speak. "The crime rate in the city, it's goin' down. And I'm gonna make sure it keeps doin' that."

Leo nodded, eyes on the television but ears on his brother. "I have noticed, Raph. Especially with the lacking Foot activity. Is that your doing?"

To this, Raphael offered another grin, but the amusement didn't reach his eyes.

"Well, whatever you've been doing, I'm sure it's worth it. You wouldn't stray away from the family for a petty reason." It was a statement, but there was a slight undertone suggesting that it very well could double as a question also.

If Raph noticed the undertone, he gave no acknowledgement. "Y'know," he said after a long minute, "I got it all figured out, I think."

"Does that mean you'll come home, eventually?" Leo had to chance the question; he kept his voice calm, but inside, he was pleading. They all needed to be a family again; there was no doubt about that. They needed it so much, it hurt.

The answer he got, however, was Raphael lowering his own voice and saying: "I know what I'm doin', alright? But the Lair ain't an option. That damn sewer ain't a home; it's a dungeon. And the rat ain't exactly a-" Hearing a sharp intake of breath on Leo's behalf, Raph stopped himself from continuing that sentence. Instead, he tried to get his point across another way. "Splinter..." This time, as he spoke, his words were slow, cautious, and just speaking the name made his gut roll and his head ache. Made him sick to the point of feeling bile rise in his throat. But he ignored the nausea and pressed on. "Splinter was my teacher, my sensei."

"And he's our father," Leo added quietly, voice barely audible so as not to interrupt but still get his point across.

Raph ignored it. "He taught me a lot, but he ain't taught me enough. And I can't learn from someone who readily expects me to fuck up. He ain't had no faith in me, and I ain't got any in him. And you know damn well, if I went back there, there would be hugs and tears; then everyone would freak if I so much as tried ta go topside alone fer a few hours. It ain't right. And I won't go back ta that shit. I ain't nobody's prisoner."

That conversation died there with Leo not quite sure of a proper response. He lowered his gaze and tried to block out the sounds of the television as he worked to sort through his thoughts. Because, Raphael would make no attempt to go home; that much was obvious, and it hurt. He was the leader. He was the eldest brother. It was his job to be supportive and pull everyone together, to offer guidance and be there for everyone. He was supposed to be strong, Fearless, but all he amounted to in his own eyes was failure.

Like any artist, he could only look at his work and point out the flaws, even when others focused on the beauty.

Leo could perfect a kata or come up with a combative strategy, but he could never find the right way to handle his dark-skinned brother. Honestly, he was beginning to think that there was no correct way, no secret strategy, no cheat code. And to acknowledge this further berthed his failure.

Then... "Lighten up, Fearless. Yer too tense. April got a chess set, er somethin'? I'll play against ya."

That caught the leader by surprise, causing him to raise an eyeridge. "You play chess? Isn't that more up Don's alley?"

Raph shrugged. "Maybe, but if I played against him, I'd lose. At least if I play you, I've got a pretty clear shot at winning."

Leo chuckled at that, tension all but gone. "I'm sure April has one. We'll play. But I don't want you to get mad when I win."

"Get the board and setup, Fearless."

"Fair enough, Hothead."

"Shucks, ya think I'm hot? I'm flattered."

"Well, once we set up, you're going to be toast."

"Ya mean, like the toaster ya always break? Or, riiiight, it was the microwave this time."

"Don't make me ask Mikey to lick your head again, because I will."

Stress promptly ignored, Leo fetched the chess set. The board lain across the coffee table, each turtle set up their own pieces.

"Bitch goes on her own color," Raph commented, catching Leo off guard.

"Come again?" Leo queried.

"The boobless wonder," Raph responded, reaching over and switching Leo's King and Queen to their correct squares. "Do I need ta explain the rules?" He asked, half serious and half joking.

"I think I know how to play."

...three games later, Leo pressed his face into his hands to hide his shame.

"My horsey moves here... and... checkmate. So, I win."

Pulling his hands away, Leo surveyed the board before huffing indignantly and affirming: "Yeah, you've won. All three games. Maybe you _should_ play Don."

"And maybe I'm just tryin' ta spend time with ya."

Without another word, the board was set up again.


	45. Ch 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: I apologize in advance for pending confusion, as I loosely reference a form of psychosis in this chapter. If you have any questions, feel free to ask. -More Notes at the bottom.

**CH 44**

* * *

The signs were there, in the way he held his head up, neck muscles strained, and the way his broad shoulders stood high and tense, making him appear larger than life. He was hyper-focused in the same way that he was on the battlefield, but this fight had him stationary, seated before a table and a checkered board. His eyes, colored to rival a sunset, bore into that of his opponent with such heat and intensity; it was almost overwhelming. The signs were there: the nervous energy of one who had victory on the cusp. Raphael knew he could win; it was only a matter of moves. With an air of satisfaction, he lifted a hand purposely to poise it over a rook. "Castle takes yer scientist."

The rook slid over to claim the bishop.

And Donatello smirked. "It's called a trap, Raph. I set up an easy score, and once you take the bait..." He paused, grabbing his own knight and moving it to overtake Raph's rook. "You take the bait, and I step in to cripple your own strategy."

The emerald skinned mutant's expression turned smug, the corners of his mouth upturning to articulate a smirk. "I ain't usin' a strategy. Not fer this. If I was, you'd figure it out and counter it. So, I'm just doin' what makes sense. No plannin'. Like, I took your scientist, and now I'm gonna take yer bitch." Raph made his move. His own queen claimed Don's.

With a half-shrug, Don made to reach for a piece but stopped dead in his tracks, browline creased. "... you took my queen," he said simply.

Raph nodded. "Yeah. Bein' a little redundant, ain't ya? I just said I was gonna take your bitch, and I did."

"I know," Don cut in hastily. "I allowed that setup deliberately. I figure, you wouldn't go after my queen because it would be pointless when my knight is perfectly in line for retribution. I could have just as easily taken your queen in turn, and it would have been an even trade that served neither of us, but-"

"But ya moved your horsey last turn, and now the damn thing can't make its L-shaped jump over ta my bitch. So, she's safe."

With a hard frown, Donatello surveyed the board. He was lacking a rook, bishop, knight, four pawns, and now his queen. How he'd gotten to this disadvantage was beyond him. He honestly thought it laughable that his brother asked him to play chess, but now it seemed as if he'd been hustled. "Raph, this is going to sound a bit... odd, but is there something you're not telling me? Perhaps, a reason you seem to be the chess equivalent to a pool shark?"

Raph huffed in a show of indignation. "I ain't hustlin' ya. You're the smart one, so I thought dis would be somethin' we could do together. Not my fault ya suck."

"I do not 'suck,' Raph. I was going easy on you."

"Suuuuure. Whatever gets ya through the day."

"It's true. Let's finish this game and go again, and I'll prove it to you."

"Forfeit this match, and we'll start a new game right now, Brainiac."

With a shake of his head, Don refused to forfeit and made his next move, his eyes never leaving the board, constantly analyzing and planning his moves in advance while simultaneously making a note of which pieces Raphael's hand would twitch towards before fully deciding what he wanted to do.

By the end of that round- ending with Raphael as the victor- Don knew for certain that Raph preferred using his rooks whenever possible. Even when the small castle-shaped pieces weren't being moved, Raph's hand almost always hovered over one before redirecting its course where necessary.

With the pieces back in their starting lineup, Don affirmed his decision to school his brother in the art of a quick-check.

"Pay attention, Raph. You might learn something," Don said, voice lilting in just the right way to convey a friendly jest.

"Someone's arrogant, especially since I beat yer intellectual ass last game," Raph rebutted.

"Arrogant? No. Confident? Yes. In fact, I'll even tell you exactly what I'm going to do, before we even start." The purple-masked turtle pointed towards one of Raph's pawns. "See this pawn at F7? I'm going to attack it as soon as I can, and after I've made only four moves, you'll be in checkmate."

Raph stared at his pawn for a long hard minute, speculating, trying to see how such a feat would be possible. Finding no success, he shook his head and mumbled a lofty: "We'll see."

Don, using the white pieces, took the first move. He moved his pawn from E2 to E4, freeing his queen for future action.

Raph's move was next.

Don's queen cut across to H5.

Raph again.

Don's king's-side bishop to C4.

Raph once more.

Finally, Don's queen moved to F7, claiming Raph's untouched pawn. "And... checkmate," Don declared simply.

Raph stared, unblinking. The series of moves had been subtle and non-threatening, completely unexpected. But with the current setup Don's queen was right next to Raph's king, and the only way Raph could negate the check would be to use his king to capture the queen. However, Don's bishop was perfectly in line to prevent it.

"I believe that is check and-mate; read it and weep, dear brother."

"How'd ya do it, Donnie?" Raph asked, almost mystified.

And Don smiled. "Honestly, if you had moved or guarded that pawn on F7, this trick would have been an impossibility. Other than that, this strategy works in as few as four moves. The opening move frees the queen. The second moves her into position. The third brings the bishop in for assistance, and the final move finishes the game. It's an easy trick, but if your opponent is wary of it, it's not hard to combat."

Raphael nodded, still staring at the board for a long moment of contemplation before drawing his eyes up to meet Don's. "Good game," he complimented gruffly, reaching a hand across the table: the universal gesture to shake hands and display good sportsmanship.

Their hands connected, each grasping firmly and moving to complete the customary ritual.

Then, Raph sat back in his chair and looked around aimlessly. His own restlessness making him tense now that the game had come to a close and he lacked an objective.

He actively worked his mind to focus on the present and enjoy the brief company of kin but occasionally drifted to remind him that he didn't rightfully belong here.

The reminder made his heart clench.

This was not his home, and his brothers -these reptiles- they could never understand the motives or actions that came into play during his time away from them. All the blood he'd spilled, the bodies buried. More than once, he'd played the role of a thief. Time and again, he'd willingly bowed before the Shredder...

The other turtles, they'd be ashamed and abhorred. Disappointed.

All the red he had to scrub from his hands. The twinges of guilt that had him teetering on the brink of stability...

It all seemed necessary at the time. And, in retrospect, he felt no remorse for his actions; he'd almost grown numb to the memory of what he'd done with little to no residual grief. But if the other reptiles knew, they'd blow it out of proportion and find nothing but disgust and contempt towards him.

In his own right, his every action had been justifiable. A necessity of sorts. It had been for a good cause. He had proven his abilities and strength and loyalty. He had worked to satisfy his human-master, and he was pretty damn sure any one of the other turtles would do the same if the rat had asked.

Of course, there was still the matter of Raphael needing to acquire the katana... Something he should have done sooner. In retrospect, back on the roof, he should have claimed the sword and made a beeline for Shredder. He should have played the role of a good little boyscout... but the lure of the city had called to him; circumstance and snap-judgement had brought him back into a world he no longer belonged.

And for too long, he entertained the idea of kinship.

_'They ain't never gonna understand. Hell, they didn't understand me before shit got messed up. I'm alone in this mess, and it's my own damn fault. Spendin' time with these guys... pretendin' ta be a family again, it's just gonna end up hurtin' 'em when I leave again. And I gotta leave. Can't stay. Shredda's already miffed; the Foot needs me; and by doin' what I do, everythin's fine. Everyone's safe. It's fine. I'm fine.'_

Lost in his own thoughts, the rest of the world ceased to exist for Raphael.

Subtly, so as not to cause alarm, his view of the room, the chessboard, and Don seemed to shift and spin and warp into something less concrete.

Absent. Hazed. Redefined.

His world... suddenly draped in blank sheets of paper that gradually became filled with ink from an imaginary source. The ink, initially blue but quickly greying.

The letters on the paper. Words. He tried to read them. They seemed important. The mere sight of them caused his insides to flash with heated anxiety.

But after reading the simple words, that heat quickly diffused, replaced by a dousing of ice cold emptiness.

The words. A brief but haunting cluster of words that did not belong in his personal world of impossibilities.

The darkening ink on the paper seemed to run down, liquified, bleeding grey-blue onto nothing, puddling on an imaginary surface, reflecting nothing. Being nothing. Making Raphael, for that instant, feel... like nothing.

Unsure of what to make of everything, he turned away from the sight, only to come face to face with another impossibility. A large hulking mass of muscle and leathery skin, emerald green beneath a rigid and partly deformed carapace with misaligned plates. This _thing_ Raphael stared at: monstrous duplicate of himself that bore a familiar red mask... Just like the last encounter with the spirit-creature, it opened its mouth to speak, but this time... words came out, sounding apathetic, borderline-mechanical, as if read thoughtlessly from the paper Raphael had turned away from.

_"The difference between Heroes and Victims, is a cross between Action and Notoriety. Ethics and Glory."_

A personal statement? Or a cryptic message? The line seemed to sear itself in place among Raph's conscious, causing a literal burning sensation in his skull.

He opened his mouth, tongue heavy with the need to speak, to question.

Then... _  
_

"Helloooo. Earth to Raph. Do you copy?" Don snapped his fingers inches away from Raphael's face to gain his attention.

Startled, the emerald-skinned turtle bolted up, posture straightening, and he looked around, wide-eyed with rapid blinking, taking in his surroundings as if to remind himself where he was. His breath came in small gasps as it dawned on him that he was still at April's, still in Don's company.

_"The difference between Heroes and Victims, is a cross between Action and Notoriety. Ethics and Glory."_

The words wouldn't leave him alone; he could almost hear them repeating in his head. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine them carved into the backs of his eyelids, taunting him, daring him to ignore them.

He felt his fingers involuntarily curl, as if to grasp a pen that was not present. Those words were important; he needed to write them down. Turn it into fiction before it became more real than it already was. As if time was a contributing factor to the abstraction.

Don stared at his brother, taking in the shift in body language and the light sheen of sweat that coated the emerald skin; the twitching fingers and slight tremor. Voice carefully calm and clinical, Don spoke. "You zoned out for approximately five and a half minutes. Your eyes were open; your pupils dilated. You were moving your hand in the air, telegraphing, as if trying to write something... I've been talking to you; I even touched your arm, but you were completely unresponsive. Raph, be honest with me. Are you alright? What's going on? Do you need-"

"I'm fine, Donatello. Fuckin' peachy." Raph snapped, harsher than intended, causing Don to flinch. "Just a headache, and yer makin' it worse with that thing ya do when ya flap your jaw and obnoxious babble comes out."

"I was only asking. Raph, if there's anything wrong, then-"

"Dammit, Donatello, ain't ya listening?!" Raph's voice boomed, nearly yelling as he slammed his fist against the tabletop, knocking several chess pieces over. "I said I'm fuckin' fine. Stop houndin' me and pretendin' like ya give a damn. You ain't my doctor, and I ain't your patient. So, just... shut that... flapping jaw of yours... and stop talking." With a huff, Raphael got up from his seat. He stumbled, uncharacteristically off balance; his hand shot out to grip the edge of the table as the wave of nausea passed. Once he was secure in his ability to remain upright, he stormed out of the room, making sure to knock down everything in his path.

 _'Chair... lamp... priceless shiny decoration thingy... Oops, that one broke... Have fun gluing it back together.'_ The entirety of Raphael's demeanor seemed to do a one-eighty, and his thoughts weren't any better.

_"The difference between Heroes and Victims, is a cross between Action and Notoriety. Ethics and Glory."_

The words seemed to hit a nerve, serving as a driving force. His pending actions, unknown; all he knew for certain, was that he had to do something.

His head ached; his chest felt tight. He needed space... And he needed it now.

Donatello's eyes were wide with worry and confusion as he watched his brother's hulking form move about with all the grace of a bowling ball being dropped onto a crystal surface. Rarely had the young genius ever been on the receiving end of his hotheaded brother's wrath, and this fit seemed to come with little to no provocation. But what really troubled the purple-masked turtle, was Raphael's episode of absenteeism followed by apparent dizziness. As a brother, let alone designated family physician, Don couldn't help the fretfulness. With only slight hesitation, the purple-masked mutant followed after his brother. "Raph, talk to me. Use your words, not your hands."

"I did enough talkin'," Raph spat, grabbing the nearest item- a framed picture of quaint and familiar farmhouse- and gripping it tightly, readying himself to throw it. He gulped in a few heaping breaths before taking a moment to look at the picture. The scene was nothing special. Just a house, a barn, a silo and a field peppered with animals. A rusted truck and a small group of chickens rest in the foreground... Carefully, Raph set the picture down and pressed his hands to his temples. His head throbbed; he could feel and hear blood rushing in alarm. His body ached with the need to exert itself. He needed an outlet. And, until he got one, no one around him was safe.

Looking around, the walls felt like they were closing in. Seeing all the other turtles file into the room to check on him only made it worse.

It was too crowded.

He could feel his heart pounding, trying to punch its way out of his chest. He had to get away before he lost it completely. It wasn't fair. Not to him, and not to the others that sought his presence. But it was getting hard to breathe. Hard to think. Hard to-

"Raph, did something happen? Are you alright?"

It was Leo's voice. Leonardo. The one in blue who dual-wielded the katana.

"Raphael was fine one moment, then seemed to have an episode of some sort resulting in his own lack of awareness, generally associated with-"

That one was Don's voice. Donatello. The one in purple who wielded the bo.

"Raphie, bro, you okay?"

And Mike. Michelangelo. The one in orange who wielded the nunchaku.

Their voices, so loud. So painfully loud, almost echoing. But not nearly loud enough to drown out the white-noise mantra of: _"The difference between Heroes and Victims, is a cross between Action and Notoriety. Ethics and Glory."_

The words in his head were unrelenting. His mind painted them in vivid bright colors, demanding attention.

Thinking was an elusive feat. His body ached for physical activity.

Raphael had to leave. And that's exactly what he intended to do. In a blind and claustrophobic panic, he raced to the door and tore it open, unaware and uncaring when the hinges snapped. Stepping outside, he didn't heed Leo's warning of: "Raph, wait. It's still daylight."

Nor did Raph see an emotional Mikey cast an accusing glare at Don before tackling him.

Raph couldn't have possibly seen Leo jumping in to run interference and break up a would-be fight.

All Raphael could focus on, was those tormenting words that were growing into white-noise and losing meaning. His vision faded in an out, reality attempting to fuse with his own personal un-reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raphael's psyche is torn between the identity of who he was and who he's becoming. He subconsciously attempted to find solace among the Astral Plane, but his spirit is also in turmoil. The result has left him disoriented and frustrated and caught between consciousness and spirituality. To write this, I've loosely referenced a form of psychosis with delusional and hallucinogenic properties. But don't worry; for all intent and purpose, this is temporary. If you have any questions, feel free to ask.


	46. Ch 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> WARNING: I don't consider this material to be triggering, but it does exemplify stress-induced psychosis. Psychosis is an unhealthy mental state usually handled with therapy and medication. The experience is different for everyone. It can be a simple as having an odd taste in your mouth, or as complicated as suffering delusions and hallucinations. If you have any questions, feel free to ask.

**CH 45**

* * *

He had no idea how he got there, nor did he care. Such inquisitions mattered little to the scatterbrained and distressed turtle that struggled to stake a claim on coherency.

Bits and pieces of his journey flashed in his mind, fragments coming and going fast, like lightning. Flash photography, blinding. Elusive moments that should have been at the corefront of his mind at one point.

Thoughts. Images. A puzzle turned abstract.

Fragmented, pieces lost. Scattered. Forgotten. Unimportant.

A picture ripped from an album and misplaced.

Raphael could barely make out the cityscape, let alone anything stagnant.

The city... A series of walls and gaps. A prison of concrete. Cars and civilians. Noise, so much noise. And... sunlight. Bright and foreboding. Surreal.

A glowing light that cast warmth over everything it dared touch- and for once, that included Raphael.

This light, reminiscent of the glowing liquid he'd come to fear, left him almost paralyzed. Rooted to the spot.

Caught between being breathless and trying to vacuum in as much air as possible, his vision faded in and out. Through bleary eyes, he caught shapes and shadows, reflecting light far too abundant to be harnessed from the city's night-glow of neon.

_'It's daylight...'_

Panic gripped him.

His mind reached for solace, grasping straws in an attempt at reprieve.

But consolation of any sort remained lost to him.

His head pounded fiercely, angrily. His body felt too hot. Too wound up. Too explosive.

A reckless vessel of energy with no outlet.

The living incarnation of a bomb. -Detonation in: 5... 4... 3... 2...-

The figurative bullet was in the chamber, ready to blow. Ready to break the sound barrier.

The pressure was building... building... building. Ready to burst.

Self-destruction at its finest.

If he didn't burn that energy up...-

_'Ain't gonna think like that. Gotta... just... go.'_

And _go_ , he did. Straight into the streets, among a throng of people, bumping shoulder-to-shoulder with five-fingered pedestrians. His carapace rubbed against their coats; his forearms nudged their purses and attache cases.

His own wide amber eyes met theirs, and he momentarily forgot how to breathe.

It was as if his life was a movie, and someone had pressed the _pause_ button.

Everything seemed to freeze. Time stood still. For a small eternity, nothing existed except the mass of humans and the sound of Raph's own pounding heartbeat.

Caught up in the crowd, his internal panic flared. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. Eyes were one him. The world seemed to stop spinning and in his state of hysteria, everyone and everything seemed to tower over him, making him feel meager and helpless. Infantile and alone...

He wanted to run. But the damage had already been done.

Humans gasped in shock, jaws flapping and eyes bulging. Smartphones raised with camera apps open... - and those were the humans that took his presence on a high note of whispers and queries and excitement at seeing something new.

Others simply screamed and shouted, finding fear and hatred for what they could not understand or explain.

An elderly woman raised a cane and took a swing at Raphael, who caught the cane mid-swing and ripped it from the woman's grasp without a second thought. This removed the woman's physical stability and she crashed down onto her hands and knees. Her old and thin skin tore on contact with the pavement, bloodying her hands as tears welled up in her eyes. Looking up at the giant turtle, she let out a horrific scream before staggering back to sit on her heels. Her hands flew to her chest, clutching and smearing blood on the cotton fabric of her shirt that boldly read: _I HEART MY GRANDKIDS._ Her body jerked in an animated fashion, as if in pain.

Then, without further warning, she wholly collapsed.

Heart attack.

The old woman, in her mid-seventies, literally scared to death.

The crowd went wild with a roar of accusation and malice.

Raphael hadn't meant any harm, but he couldn't explain himself nor his actions; these humans wouldn't have listened, even if he'd tried. When he'd seen the woman raise her cane, the item registered in Raph's mind as a weapon. He didn't see the woman as a panicking elderly trying to defend herself; he'd looked at her and saw an attacker, armed and taking a swing, aiming for his head.

Instinct had urged him to stop the attempted assault. But this small act had worsened the situation in ways he'd never imagined.

A couple humans bravely shoved passed Raph to check on the woman, one claiming to be a nurse and shouting for someone to call an ambulance.

Other humans began to stir about in a flurry of activity. They focused on Raphael rather than the fallen woman; they pointed and jeered, cursed at him. Called him a demon and a freak. A monster. An alien. A beast. Many gave wordless shrieks or simply ran from him, as if he carried the plague.

In Raphael's stricken state of mind, he was ill-equipped to be offended or fix his error. The only thing that fully processed in his head, was the overwhelming urge to make himself scarce.

Ignoring the wild pedestrians as much as possible, he bolted. Ran. Legs moving faster than he remembered they could. He continued to move through the streets and into an alley, away from the sun and towards a small, comforting pool of darkness. A shadowed oasis between two buildings.

His heart started to beat a little more calmly once he found himself alone.

His breath came at more even intervals.

The throbbing headache began to subside.

The sounds of the city around him turned to deafening white noise, until all that remained was his thoughts. And even that much was becoming difficult to focus on.

For a moment, he felt cold. His ears felt plugged, as if he'd been submerged underwater. Everything seemed to go in slow motion. Bright light filtered into his vision and further distorted the world around him.

Everything seemed so close and so far away at the same time. As if he could reach out and touch reality personified... only for it to vanish on contact. Or lose tangibility.

Unable to fully comprehend his own inner-workings, he sought familiarity.

He sought escape from this whole new brand of hell he'd found himself in.

He sought peace he didn't believe himself to be worthy of.

Closing his eyes tightly, breathing deeply, he fought to find his center. He tried desperately to quell the storm that raged inside.

He felt so cold. A shiver racked his frame, but in the light of day and the added warmth of his radioactive belt, he knew that the weather had nothing to do with the chill that cut him bone-deep.

The freezing sensation that settled over him came from something internal that he did not know how to combat.

Slowly easing his eyes open, his vision was gone completely. A psychosomatic affair. His surroundings were newly lost to his eyes, replaced by a whole new impossibility.

Instead of the the brick wall he pressed himself against, fingers scraping against the coarse and grainy surface, he saw words. Eyes wide open to the world and staring at nothing, the words were as plain and visible as the neon lights that lit up the skylines from dusk til dawn. The words he saw, written bright and bold, seared into his brain and begging his attention...

Impossible words.

 _Heroes..._  
_Victims..._  
_Ethics and Glory..._

Words Raphael knew would haunt his dreams to come. Words he didn't understand. Words he wished would go away.

He found no understanding in them. He didn't want to think. He didn't want to do anything except get the words to leave him alone.

With a cry of frustration, he fell to his knees and pressed the heels of his hands to his closed eyelids, pressing hard, daring the force behind his clutch to push away his troubles.

"I didn't want this..." he ground out through clenched teeth.

He rubbed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, hard enough for the pressure to hurt. He imagined, if he pressed a little harder, his eyeballs might comically pop back into his skull- though he doubted the genuine probability.

This might happen in a cartoon, but cartoons were foolish and tended to bend the rules for the sake of entertainment.

In a last ditch effort to free himself of the haunt, Raph removed his hands, only to bring them both down hard on his head, hitting himself with harsh jaunty motions, as if literally trying to knock sense into himself.

When this failed, he sat back and turned to lean his carapace against a cool cement wall. Knees drawn up, he rested his head forward and concentrated on breathing.

In... and out.  
Out... and in.  
In... and... out.

He repeated the process for what felt like forever, and then he continued it.

In. Out.

He continued. Until he felt light-headed. Until his mind was clear, empty, and completely unfocused. A blank slate.

The words in his head... gone... fading. Leaving him to his own quiet demise.

Then, and only then did he find momentary bliss.

Because, for the moment, he was fine. He was alone. And as far as he knew, it was better that way.

He wasn't hurting anyone. And no one could hurt him. No one could see him for this _thing_ he'd become.

This monster. This freak. This failure.

This psycho.


	47. Ch 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: This chapter TAKES PLACE IN THE PAST! You can estimate the time frame. It showcases the development of Don and Casey's friendship.  
> This was going to be edited out and tossed into the imaginary scrap heap of 'Deleted Scenes' I have for this story, but I decided to keep it.

**CH 46**

* * *

Casey had the reckless nature and the boisterous ego, the tendency to jump headfirst into any situation no matter how dire. And Don was strong, smart, free-thinking, and loyal to a fault, with a sympathetic ear accompanied by the ability to keep his mouth shut.

The two had come together by pure chance months ago, crossing the line between acquaintance and friends- which, under any other circumstance, would have been unheard of.

How it began... was simple enough.

Donatello, like everyone else in their tight-knit group, had been grief-stricken, pushed beyond muted worry and well towards the understanding that a more active approach would be necessary for retrieving his lost brother. Having acknowledged and found disapproval in Leo's almost passive attempts as well as Mikey's new emotional outbursts, the purple-masked ninja vied for a chance to search for Raphael whenever possible.

Almost obsessively.

The moment the sun turned away, he was grabbing his bo and making a run. To search anywhere and everywhere, lurking high- fire escapes and rooftops- and searching low- slinking from shadow to shadow like only a ninja could.

Silent. Stealthy. Shhhh.

With the desperation only a brother could afford, it seemed like his only option...

He had tried the other route. Tried to wait it out, at first assuming that Raphael would be home on his own accord within a few days. Then, within a week. But it soon became obvious that his muscle-bound sibling had no intent to return to their homestead.

Don had tried being patient. Tried taking the technical route. Tried being methodical in his search. But all that went out the window once he took a moment to fully assess the damage that had been done to his family.

Because, it was just that. _Damaged._

As much as it pained Donnie to admit, Michelangelo had, in a fit of newfound frustration that bordered genuine anger, said something valid.

_"With Raph gone, it's like no one's even trying to be family anymore."_

It was true, Mikey's words, blunt and astute. Heartfelt and full of hurt. The pain, somehow contagious, volcanic in its sudden eruption and spreading devastation.

While Donatello had, at the time, kept up his usual placid facade, the realization of Mikey's turmoil had been the straw that broke the camel's back- so to speak. That had caused the feeling of something deep and fractured and painful: a brutal gnawing on Don's insides. A new breed of heartache. And with it, a new determination: a reckless abandon that gradually overtook his logic.

There was one such night, when Don felt that determination flare- a fire in his veins, a desire to find his brother and make things right again- to fix everything, like he always did...

But as he moved to exit the Lair, he found himself face-to-face with an unexpected adversary.

Standing with him, toe-to-toe and beak-to-beak, Don drew in a sharp breath and stared reproachfully at leader.

Leo stood between his brother and the exit, acting as an immovable force. "Not tonight, Don. We've been searching nonstop almost every night. We're wearing ourselves out. Rest tonight, and we'll go out tomorrow."

The intellectual nearly balked at the instruction and attempt to halt his nightly plans. He didn't want to make a mountain out of a molehill, but he still had every intent to keep his agenda. "Raph's out there alone, Leo," Don answered, voice level but heart thumping at the idea of rebelling against his leader's wishes. Despite being cold blooded, his palms were sweaty with a nervousness he wasn't quite accustomed to. But his resolve was firm, unwavering. He carried his head high in a proud and defiant way reminiscent of his hotheaded brother. "I'm not tired, so there's no reason to rest when I could be out there finding him."

"Don, you're exhausted; we all are. Physically, emotionally, spiritually..." The blue-banded turtle's eyes held a mix of sympathy and sorrow. "I miss him too, but-"

"Leo," Don interrupted, voice just a pitch louder than intended, "you could never keep Raph here, and you can't keep me here either. Neither of us want to fight, so why don't you just sit here and meditate, then complain and lecture me when I get back? It's what you do, isn't it? When you can't solve something with honorable combat, you hide away in your head, meditating. When we don't behave the way you expect us to, you develop and spout this self-righteous tirade, as if your methods and points of virtue are the only correct ones. As if we can't-" Don's words caught in his throat then, halting mid-sentence. The voice was his own, but the words... sounded familiar; yet, they felt strange on his own tongue. These words, this attitude... foreign to his usually passive self. Easily deciding that this hostility was some form of coping mechanism, Don reevaluated the situation, his role, and his opponent; then, he changed tact. "Leo, it's who you are. It's your own static defense and natural inclination. You are this Zen master following in sensei's footsteps. That's who you are and how you handle whatever is thrown at you. But the rest of us aren't like that. Like our differential fighting styles, we handle stress in varying strategics. So, you shouldn't get upset when we utilize our own methods of coping." Don paused then, maintaining eye contact and gauging his brother's reaction.

Leo took several long moments to process what he was told- the all too civil yet somehow aggressive manner of attack through verbal means. It was unsettling, almost hurtful, but no less honest. He allowed and held eye contact with his younger brother, too prideful to look away, but he had no words to spare. No proper repose.

And Leo wasn't at all surprised when Don concluded the spiel with: "Leo, we're all hurting right now. But, Raph has been hurting like this for years, and none of us have ever taken the time to reflect on how we could help."

Leo did open his mouth then, an apology burning his tongue out of a reflex he only exercised for family, but before he could voice it, Don raised a hand in a gesture of silence.

"Now is not the time for self-depreciation or sorrow. It doesn't fix anything. Instead of apologizing or picking a battle over something you don't approve of, try to understand where we're coming from. It's something you used to do... But lately, you've been negligent. And that's not good for anyone. If you want to self-improve, then do it, but let us be, Leo. For a little while... Let us cope. Let Mike eat his cereal and yell a little. And let me do this. Let me find Raph. Even if he's a million miles from here, let me try." His voice, usually kind or clinical, cracked just a bit, baring the fervid emotions he usually held at bay. "Even if he's long gone, give me this chance. I need it. It's like penicillin for the heart."

As Leo listened and took note of the overwhelming aura of anguish that only seemed to spread, his mouth pressed into a firm line. Unable to call forth words powerful enough to make amends, Leo found himself closing the gap between himself and his immediate younger brother, slipping both arms around the intelligent turtle and pulling him into a tight hold, possessive and assuring. The type of hug he usually reserved for Michelangelo in rare moments of woe...

Don allowed the hug, for which Leo was grateful. He tightened his arms around his brother just a bit more, to offer a wordless reminder that they still had each other.

Don returned the embrace with a little less enthusiasm, offering mutual comfort while informing the other through brevity that he wouldn't change his mind. He was going. And no force on Earth would change that.

Parting from one another and trading expressions of understanding, Leonardo stepped aside and allowed passage.

Because Don needed this. This freedom to hope, to try, to possibly fail and try again. Like an experiment, theorize and test.

A wrong answer was still an answer. Behind every failure was a new opportunity. To learn from mistakes, and to try again. To not give up. To keep going until a complete understanding had been reached, documented, and shared.

In a strange way, science almost depended on the endurance of one's hope. And Don loved science, statistics and facts. Information that was solid and unchanging, permanent. Something safe, constant. Something he could count on to keep him grounded...

-The act of leaving the Lair solo, as simple as it was, could almost be described as liberating.

It was easy enough to see the appeal, the frequency Raphael had fled the Lair, through the tunnels, making his way topside. There was a light and excitable feeling behind it. A natural high with an underlying promise of hope and possibility.

And, logic be damned, Don wanted to keep that faith, that optimism. He needed it. Like the very air he breathed, he was almost desperate for that feeling.

He'd rationalized it all in his head, to alleviate pending guilt of the unfair truths he'd spoken to his brother and leader prior to his departure. Almost compromising, he decided that he would go to the surface and search for only an hour or so. Not too long, but long enough to put forth the effort and feel like he was doing something useful.

Once topside, he drew in that air. That excitement. That freeing sense of wonder.

He checked all the usual spots in an almost ritualistic fashion, finding nothing. No clues. No hints. No brother.

Before long, he found himself almost aimless in his plight, lost in his search, but he refused to be disheartened.

He was about ready to give in, go home, and save the last of his squandering ambition for another day. Store it away safely before it completely burned out.

But by the rule of some cosmic and imaginary force Don will never admit to believing in, something caught his attention, stopping him in his tracks, halting any and all progression.

Sounds sailed from a distance into his keenly focused ear slits, and he listened, instinctively trying to discern exactly what he was hearing.

Noise. Familiar noise. Grunting, labored breathing, a weapon cutting through the air and colliding with something solid- as if its wielder had missed the initial target and cracked into something less forgiving.

Happening upon the sounds of a fight followed by the well-known croon of Casey's accent, Don felt compelled to investigate. And he moved in to do just that.

As Don closed in on the scene, the first thing he noticed was the broken hockey stick on the ground. Eyes only resting on the would-be weapon for a fraction of a second, he stole his focus away and aligned it with the human owner of said stick.

The vigilante in question held a look of unadulterated rage on his unmasked face as he managed to pin a young punker to the wall before speaking in a low menacing tone: "Ya got about five seconds ta sing like a canary. Ya seen my pal? 'Bout ye' tall, kinda green..."

The punk rapidly shook his head, eyes wide, panicked, knees buckling and tears surfacing; he was just a kid caught up in the wrong business- that much was obvious. He was out of his league, in no position to fight Casey should it come to blows.

So Don stepped in, prior commitment stowed away to make way for better judgement. "Jones, he doesn't know anything. Let him go," the turtle coaxed.

Albeit hesitant, Casey relented, slowly loosening his hold on the kid before stepping away. "Ya don't know nothin'," he grumbled, half-speaking to the kid. "Get goin'. Move. Go home." He didn't watch, but he heard the frantic footsteps as the punk took off down the street. Once he was certain the kid was out of earshot, Casey looked down at his broken stick; he had swung it at the kid hard- and missed, hitting the wall with enough force to snap the stick. If the kid hadn't ducked in time... -Casey didn't want to think about the damage that could have been done. So, he focused instead on his response to Don's unexpected presence. "I just miss Raph," he confessed, sniffing and moving to collect the ruined sports equipment. Taking it into his hands, he added: "Life's been one suck-fest after another- Everything... right down the shitter since Raph ran off."

Don's face scrunched up at the crude words and unpleasant imagery, but after processing the desperate tone in the voice of his human companion, his expression mirrored sympathy and condolence. "I know, but... shaking down innocent kids isn't the best way to-"

"I know that, Donnie-boy. Dammit, I know! But you guys ain't found Raph yet. And if you guys can't, who can? I been lookin' real hard... My bud, he's just gone. My best friend...- And it ain't like he up-and-moved away. He disappeared. I don't even know if the bonehead is alive, or-" His face crumbled in agony at the mere thought. "He's my pal, Don. I know I got you guys, but it ain't the same. Raph gets me."

Don's expression turned contemplative then. "Jones- or, rather- Casey..." Don tried to loosen his tongue and ease up on the formalities. It was obvious that the human was just as distressed as himself and his brothers. "I'm sor-"

"Donnie, I miss Raph." Casey cut in, needing his words to be heard. He'd been moping since Raph's departure. Moping, or fighting with April. Then moping more. "Raph and me, we hang out, and he gets me. I talk, and he listens. He talks, and I listen. Sometimes, we ain't gotta talk at all, and we still understand." Casey looked down and kicked a dented old beer can before mumbling: "It ain't just Raph bein' gone that's got me feelin' like this. Fuck, that's most of it, but... there's more. I mean, I like April. Her and me, we had a good thing fer a while, but now April's sleeping with her boss- that's why she's so damn busy all the time! Charity, my ass. More like, she jack-hammerin' everyone at the station! And I ain't got no one ta talk to about it. I lost my pal and my girl, and I got no one." He kicked the can again and glowered at it as it skittered away. "I got nothin'. Even that _can_ ran from me. Stupid trash. Stupid everything..."

Don had nothing to say, no words to give. And Casey was spent, too drained from the admittance to say anything more.

Thus, the conversation had verbally ended there.

Words could offer no salvation here.

Donatello took Casey's hand and led him out of the streets and back to the human's home.

That night, Casey went through a 6-pack by himself while he talked to Don- or, at least started to... until a Penguins -vs- Flyers game came on. The rest of the night was filled with Casey making boisterous shouts at the television from time to time, and explaining hockey rules, regulations, and statistics to Don during stoppages.

By the end of the 2nd Period of the game, Don could see the appeal. The tact behind each shot. The frustration when a ref or linesman made a bad call. He almost wanted to join in and shout when that unnecessary slashing took a player out of the game due to a fractured wrist...

Don was on pins and needles when, with less than 12 seconds left on the clock of regulation game time, the Penguin's player banked a shot off the board, caught it on the rebound and hit the puck with a snapshot into the net, tying the game and then sending it into overtime...

-The following morning, Don wrote a brief farewell note to Casey and left it on the table next to a glass of water and some aspirin before heading back to the Lair where Leo awaited his return but, much to Don's surprise and relief, gave no lecture.

That first night with Casey, along with his confession about why he and April had been fighting, was never talked about -the subject taboo- but many nights of camaraderie followed.

At first, Don told himself he was only going along with Casey to prevent the vigilante from going 'ape' on an undeserving punk like he almost had before. But, by the third or fourth time they met up together, it became less about the punks and more about a friendship that was beginning to form.

Together, Casey and Don would patrol and search the city during the dark hours. When that proved unsuccessful and fatigue bade them to stop, they retired to watch a game or plan another excursion.

Spending time together, they still missed Raphael, but neither felt quite as alone in their misery; and that made the pain more bearable.


	48. Ch 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH 47**

* * *

_[Presently / Shortly after Raph's episode of psychosis and subsequent flight...]_

Hobo-Joe, also known as Big Carl, hadn't been able to make it to April's due to a meeting with a contractor that couldn't be rescheduled. Instead, he acquired a bottle of Tequila, to which he attached a tag inscribed:

_TO: FROG PRINCE / RAPHAEL_   
_Drink up, but don't drink alone._   
_FROM: HOBO-JOE_

Knowing that he couldn't make it to the little gathering he'd been invited to, Carl had parted ways with Casey, promising to be available next time, assuming there would be a next time.

Casey hadn't minded one bit. While he was exercising surprisingly fair mannerisms, the obese human had smelled like a mix of rotting tuna, onions, and day-old chicken. Comparatively, the sewers smelled more pleasant, less gaseous and stomach-churning. So, Casey harbored no ill will when he took the Tequila in one hand- and cradled a box in under his opposing arm.

The box, wrapped in birthday-themed paper, had that distinctive size, shape, and weight that made kids groan on holidays: the dreadful _'Aw, man, it's clothes!'_ box...

This box, in particular, was the housing of something special Casey had taken from his own home: a present he bought for his emerald-skinned friend; he couldn't wait to give it to him. He'd never put so much thought into a gift for someone in his whole life, and now the excitement left him almost feeling like a kid at Christmas time. Giddy with gift-giving excitement. He couldn't stop grinning ear to ear at the mere thought of how Raphael might react.

Casey could only imagine...

He wouldn't tell Raphael how much money went into it (cough-$539-cough), and he'd gotten a deal on it. The authentic sweater that mirrored the black and silver jersey worn by Raphael's favorite NHL player.

#11, Anze Kopitar... center for the LA Kings.

Sure, Casey could have gotten it for half the price, but it wouldn't have been tailored to accommodate Raphael's shell, nor would it have that glorious signature scripted so boldly by Kopitar himself. An autograph, worth every hard-earned dollar Casey had saved and put into it.

_'Raph's gonna be stoked, I just know it!'_

-He easily made the trip back to April's, intent on giving Raphael his gift... only to enter the apartment and find everyone in a state of turmoil.

Because, much to his dismay, Raphael had fled. Again. Only, this time, he'd fled during the daytime when the streets were jam-packed with busy people migrating from coffee shops to bookstores, from work to hotels, from cabs to courthouses, etc.

Casey could only imagine the blind panic that would have sent Raph running at such a time.

And, sitting the Tequila bottle down on the table, Casey stood stock-still, expression unreadable as he considered the brightly wrapped box that he clutched just a bit tighter than necessary. A feeling of woe tore through him, but his face remained passive, blank. He hadn't considered that Raph would run off again, but he should have. He should've been prepared. He should've stayed to prevent it. He should've done something other than run off to fetch a stupid box...

Now, he could do little more than stand there in the living room, dumbstruck, muddy shoes pressing prints into April's carpet; he couldn't help wondering if he'd ever see his friend again. It was a terrible feeling, and he was sure the others were feeling just as bad.

With possibly more care than he'd ever shown another inanimate object, Casey placed the box next to the bottle on the table. His gaze swept over the other occupants in the room as he fought to work out a solution at his own pace; there had to be something he could do.

-April was sitting at a computer chair, Don looming over her shoulder as he backseat-researched. The journalist was pressing her lips together in a firm line, forcing herself to keep the slight annoyance to herself; after all, it wasn't the genius turtle's fault; stress was an ill accessory for anyone.

"Raphael's new gear was engraved with the TGRI logo," Don said for the umpteenth time, eyes darting left to right as he scanned the useless information on the page. "That has to mean something. There has to be a lead there, somehow... Of course, I don't expect the company to have their dirty laundry easily accessible to public view, but-"

"Donnie," April cut in, keeping her voice as level as possible. "I know how to use a computer. I'll find something, just give me a minute."

Don shook his head slowly, eyes closing in distress. After taking a deep calming breath and steeling his focus once more, he, snapped his eyes open and grabbed the back of April's chair, wheeling it out of the way before moving to stand directly in front of the computer, hands poised over the keyboard.

April looked affronted, but before she could voice a complaint, Don was stepping away from the computer and turning the printer on. She watched him momentarily fiddle with the leather strap that crossed his chest while the printer came to life and awaited its queue. Then he stepped back to the computer and clicked a small print icon.

In the disheartened silence of the apartment, the printer was obnoxiously loud, inking the paper and spitting it out bit by bit.

"April, I need you to do something for me," Don said quickly, eyes locked onto the paper as it came into view.

"I'll help however I can, Donnie. You know that," April answered without missing a beat, eyes full of sympathy and concern.

The printer completed its task.

Grabbing the paper, Don skimmed over the contents before thrusting it in April's direction. "Jordan Perry. His contact information is all here. Fax, email, phone, address- You can't so much as Google TGRI without his name popping up. I'm not expecting much, but any information is better than none."

"What kind of information are you hoping to find, Donnie?"

"I... I don't know, April," Don confessed, voice strained. "But if Raph got his gear from TGRI, then there must be some link between himself and the company. And if so, we'll find it. Any lead will be helpful. I'm concerned; Raphael suffered a breakdown of some sort, and he needs help. I don't know where he's running off to, where he's been, and I don't like the numerous unknown variables. We need answers... If he's suffering a psychological disorder-"

Michelangelo chose that moment to pop in from the kitchen, arms crossed and an expression of utter hatred marring his would-be innocent face. "If you hadn't freaked him out, _Don_ , Raph would still be here, I bet. And we wouldn't have to find him!"

"Mikey, I didn't-" Don began to defend, heart clenching at the implication.

But the sea-green mutant wasn't done. He jabbed a finger over at Leo, who sat behind the couch in the lotus position, eyes closed as he attempted the losing battle of meditating under the excessive stress. "And-" Mike piped up, voice growing louder, harsher, "if Leo wasn't being such a _dick_ -!"

"Michelangelo!" Leo barked, eyes snapping open to glare at his youngest brother. "Your language is-"

"Shut up, Leo! I mean it! You're being a dick! We should be out there following Raph right now! He needs us! And you're keeping us here just because of a little sunlight! Well, Raph didn't heed the sun, did he? Nooo, he just ran out there and- Leo, he's all alone! He's upset! And if we don't go after him, he's gonna think we don't even care! This is the same thing that happened last time! You think you know best, but you don't! You _don't_ , Leo!"

The blue-banded turtle rubbed his beak, trying to quell his frustration. "Mike, listen to me. Exposing ourselves to a mass of humans isn't going to help anyone. Raph ran for the same reason he always runs. He felt threatened, and if he hadn't ran, he would have lashed out at us. Wherever he's going, I'm sure he's going there with the intent to find safety. If we chase him, it'll only make matters worse."

"You're stupid, Leo," Mikey spat, turning away and stomping off, but not before shouting "I hope your next gulp of tea goes down the wrong hole and makes you choke!"

Leo sighed heavily, worried and weary for the situation, but he wouldn't second-guess his judgement. Daytime exposure just wasn't something they could afford. He glanced at his purple-masked brother, trying to pull together the right words and assure the support of his intelligent younger brother. "I'm sorry, Don. You know I mean well. And you know-"

"I know a lot of things, Leo," Don said simply. "I dutifully agree with you on an abundant of things. I never question your leadership or judgement. Your plans for going into battle are always sound. In terms of training, I have nothing but praise to sing for you. However, this is an entirely different subject, and I must say that Mikey's right."

Hearing this, Leo was taken aback, expression perplexed.

"When the subject involves Raphael, _you_ \- Leo- tend to be a major dick." Don's words. Don's voice. Uncharacteristically crude and exceptionally honest.

Having been a bystander amidst the drama, Casey found his voice and spoke loud and concise. "I'm goin' out to look fer my pal. You guys are welcome ta come."

"Daylight," Leo reminded, throwing his arms out in a spastic gesture. A migraine had long since formed, and it was only adding to his exasperation, his usual brand of stoicism lost among the upheaval of emotions and stress.

Then...

"Grab a hat and coat. Stick to the rooftops and back alleys if ya gotta." Casey rebutted, eyes narrow. "Raph wouldn't hesitate ta run after any of us. Yet we're sittin' on our asses while he's strugglin' with all this stuff on his own. Tch, pisses me off. I'm goin'."

April looked thoughtful before giving an insistent nod. "Guys, I've got several coats in the back. They were in the closet when I moved in. They smell like mothballs, but they'll do the job. You guys go, and I'll keep an eye on the news and try to contact that associate from TGRI."

Mikey poked his head in again, but this time... an embellished Richard Nixon mask hid his face. "Couldn't help but overhear," he said, tone bubbly in absence of the malice expressed prior. "I'm ready. We've got some more masks too; I found 'em in a box, along with wigs, stockings, vibrating wands, and-!" he rattled off a list that left April horrified and the others paling. Then he jumped back to the subject of masks. "We've got Michelle Obama, Garfield, Homer Simpson- Oh, there's a pimp hat! Seriously! If we're gonna find Raph, lets _go_ already! My face is gettin' sweaty under this latex-thingy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The point of this chapter? I needed to set up an upcoming event later, plus... I couldn't jump in with Raph and leave so many loose ties over here.  
> -Next chapter will follow Raph, FINALLY!
> 
> RANDOM QUESTION!  
> Has anyone ever written or read a TMNT prison-fic? *curious*


	49. Ch 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH 48**

* * *

_[Raphael]_

What happened next, Raphael had no recollection of.

He simply opened his eyes to find himself back at Central. The familiar white walls of the Infirmary greeting him with a blinding whiteness that only served to reflect and embolden the light from his UVB lamp.

As if the light had swallowed him whole.

Too warm.

Too bright.

For a moment, he imagined water in his lungs. Impossible glowing water. Liquid light. Encasing him. Suffocating him. Filling his insides...

Drowning him with an unreality.

But the illusion was fleeting, chased away by the familiar feel of the sheets beneath him as his hands fisted the fabric. The texture of the blanket was grounding and brought him a moment of relief.

His respite was only furthered when he closed his eyes; he could almost pretend he was safely hiding among the shadows. Safe. Somewhere safe.

He could _almost_ pretend... but his eyes couldn't possibly remain closed forever. Once open, his vision was flooded with white.

White, and light.

The acknowledgement of the light brought a flash of memories... Memories of the sun itself. The heat and warmth. An old woman's fall- blood on her hands and sweater. A crowd of humans and the various emotions that touched their features and made them into something ugly and frightening.

The excitement, disgust, and fear...

Seeing those sincere emotions up close, Raphael had to mentally discredit every actor or actress he'd seen on tv. Because, they weren't real; their faces were all wrong... and what he'd seen in the light of day was very, very real. Very frightening. Horrifying.

The mere memory of those expressions caused him affliction that no movie ever could.

And for a moment, Raphael _hated_ movies. Television. _'Fuckin' cinema and all its lies...'_ He unofficially hated any media that allowed humans to openly lie with their words and faces.

And, oh, how he _hated_ their faces. So normal, so perfect, so grotesquely unassuming because they just looked so human: with their large eyes, defined cheekbones, collagen-injected lips, breathy porn-star voice, fake breasts, spray tans...

All of it, just another mask. A costume. Lies.

Without a doubt, Raphael hated liars. While he was many things- most of which were considerably unpleasant- he spoke the truth, always. In some undefinable sense, that had almost become his credo.

 _'Scout's honor.'_  
_'Were you ever a scout, Raphael?'_  
_'Nope, but I keep my promises.'  
_

Honesty. Something that too few humans seemed to understand, let alone exhibit.

And once again, Raphael was glad that he wasn't human. Glad he couldn't afford the Chuck Taylor sneakers and Hilfiger jeans. Glad he didn't have a different face for every occasion...

But one thing he wasn't glad for, was how annoying that light was starting to become.

Too bright. Too warm. Too much of an oppressive reminder to a paroxysm he didn't know how to handle.

It was too much, his emotions. Too unstable and hard to outright define.

Unable to properly assess and understand how he felt, let alone how he was supposed to feel, Raph found himself focusing on the side of torrent that was easier for him to grasp. Fear, anger, hurt, loathing... The darker things that never left him alone for long. The things that gripped his heart and squeezed it tight until he forgot how to breathe...

But he was breathing. For now. Shallow breaths that were anything but calm. And his heart was beating, hard, as if it too was angered and trying to beat its own pain into him. Attacking him from the inside out.

He needed to make it stop. He needed to find the source of his misery and end it.

Without much thought, Raphael placed the blame for his stress solely on that rays of the UVB lamp. Because, yes, the light was the cause of his problems. The light he'd been forced to hide from due to circumstance. The liquid light that haunted him whenever his mind slipped away. The sun that had allowed too much clarity for the conclusion of his last outing...

 _'Fuckin' light... Kill it,'_ Raph couldn't help the thought process. If something hurt, he had to stop it. If a wound was bleeding, he staunched the flow. But there were only so many ways to handle his current ordeal. So, he did what made sense to him.

He lifted a foot and landed a hard kick to the lamp, knocking it away with a punishing force; the lamp was uprooted from its fixture and suffered a harsh collision with the tiled floor- the bulb avoiding direct impact due to the rig.

Feeling a little better at the small burst of activity, Raphael slowly sat up and took a moment to collect himself.

Looking around at the white wash walls, the word _'home'_ came to mind; but the thought came with a strange mix of bitterness and pleasantry.

Unsettled but not entirely disheartened, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and got to his feet. Habitually, he turned to tuck the corners of the blankets and smooth out the wrinkles before walking over to the counter. His eyes roamed over his extended collection of gear, as per usual. He claimed his belt first and foremost; his sais were in their proper holsters. Securing the belt, he fought for the memory of removing it in the first place. But his mind supplied nothing. As if a chunk of his memory just blanked itself. The last thing he acutely remembered, was...-

Maybe it was better if he didn't remember. Less detrimental. If something had been important, he would recall it; if not, then it just didn't matter. His psyche was already threatened with trauma. So, to protect himself- what was left of himself- he'd allow the ignorance. He'd continue to pretend... for just a while longer.

_'Denial? Yeah, that sounds about right...'_

Decision affirmed and approved, Raph reached for his steel-plated pads and guards but stopped just shy of making contact. After the hesitation, he trained his attention on the bandana he'd forgone during his prior outing.

The familiar bandana blazoned with the Foot insignia. His fingers twitched towards it, ready to take and don it with pride, but once more he hesitated.

Leaving the bandana untouched, he grabbed his pill planner. Flipping an AM tab, he procured the 14 pills he'd come to know so well.

These pills were safe, familiar, grounding. These pills helped.

Popping those pills into his mouth and swallowing them dry, he almost felt complete.

The simple task was done. On some small scale, he'd accomplished something. This acknowledgement allowed his heart to swell pleasantly and he relished the feeling. The small satisfaction he felt almost made him feel better.

He knew, however, that an upcoming task would involve kneeling before the Shredder and giving half-assed explanations for his actions. Likewise, he knew the the outcome would be negative; his punishment, severe- it had to be. He'd fucked up. He'd been out all night and half the next day, lollygagging with the very reptiles he'd been warned against.

Family or not, rules were in place, and he'd agreed to follow them.

Then he blatantly disregarded and broke those rules.

 _'Then again, maybe I could stretch the truth, just a little? If I can just make it simple and convincing... then- No. Shredda would know. He'd have to know. He'd know I was lying, and then the fact that I'd lied would make it all seem more than it was. Right? Besides, I ain't a liar. Never was, never gonna be. I-I'm better than that.'_  
  
His thoughts started out strong, firm, but lost conviction halfway through, and he couldn't help gritting his teeth at the uncertainty.

His headache was beginning to return, sharp and piercing. Nearly debilitating.

He claimed the familiar plastic cup in his hand and turned the tap. He filled the cup and brought it to his mouth, tossing his head back and swallowing the contents in a single gulp, shot-style. Then he repeated this action several times.

His tongue felt dry and tacky when pressed to the roof of his mouth. His throat felt as if he'd swallowed a dozen cotton balls.

Swallow after swallow, he consumed the water until his thirst was quenched. Then, he closed the water tap and placed the cup in its designated place.

Then, finally, with a deep breath to steel his nerves and strengthen his resolve, he reminded his legs how to move and made his way to the door.

 _'Just do it quick,'_ he thought to himself. _'Like rippin' off a band-aid. Tell Shredda that I was out. Tell him some distorted version of the truth. And try not to give him more reasons ta be pissed.'_

He placed his hand on the lever that served as the door's handle. Another slow and deep breath entered and exited his lungs.

_'Let's get this over with. Rip off the band-aid. What's the worst that could happen?'_

The question caused ice to course through his veins and he froze on the spot.

He may have become the Shredder's heir, but he still knew damn well what that man was capable of. He'd seen and heard punishments that were dished out, and he was certain their offenses were less than his own.

 _'It's fine. It'll be okay,'_ he coaxed himself, tightening his grip on the lever. _'I'll be alright. Shredda likes me. Shell, he's probably in that ridiculous duck-robe right now, sippin' some fancy wine and waitin' fer me to greet him.'_ The grin that stretched across his face was only partly forced. The amusement was there, but his insides were knotted with worry.

Despite his best efforts at convincing himself, he wasn't sure he'd still have a head attached to his shoulders after the inevitable encounter.

Another inhale- this one sharper than the last, more cutting and less soothing. And, finally, he turned the-

_'What. The. Fuck?'_

He _tried_ to open the door. His grip tightening even more, knuckles paling, jostled the handle every which and way, but it refused to make the complete turn that would allow the door to open.

Which could only mean one thing.

The door... was locked.

From the outside.

Rather, _he_ was locked _in_.

His already fraying nerves were further frazzled, and he pressed his forehead firmly against the cool metal door, taking a moment to calm himself.

He breathed.

In and out.

Repeat.

If calming himself down was considered to be a task of some sort, he'd failed to complete it.

He felt insulted and angry at being locked in. Frustration came to light, demonstrated by his fist planting itself against the solid and unforgiving surface of the door.

The act came without thought.

Active reflex.

His hand hurt from the action, but the exploding pain in his knuckles was a good thing. It gave him something to focus on- something other than anxiety and loathing.

For that moment, _pain_ was a safe place to be. He almost welcomed the familiar sensation.

So, he stepped back and threw a hit at the door again, this blow followed by the toss of his other fist.

Hit after hit, punch after punch. He attacked the door with little to no tact.

He needed this.

His eyes were caught on an imaginary focal point, and he continued to lay into the door as if it was the cause of the mess that had become his life. As if the very steel surface beneath the breaking skin along his knuckles was the object of his disdain.

A particularly hard hit had his knuckles sliding across the metal, leaving a smear of red behind.

Seeing the red, he stepped back a few paces and stared, distraught at the sight. At the color. His own blood dusted on the surface of steel.

In a white room.

Trapped.

His head hurt.

He placed both hands over his eyes and drew in a shuddering breath.

If he couldn't see his blood etched along the metal surface, he could pretend it wasn't there. He wasn't there. He wasn't trapped. This wasn't his life. He was somewhere else. Someone else...

He had a fearless leader who looked down on him, not in spite, but out of brotherly concern. He had a genius brother with an infectious aura of calm. And he had spontaneous and bubbly knucklehead that could brighten the darkest of days...

The thought made his mouth twitch with the desire to smile. Because, yeah, he had that.

When his nerves were less jumbled, he slowly lowered his hands and his eyes took in the streak of red.

In an instant, his feel-good expression faded, replaced by something dark and downright heinous.

_'Who am I kiddin'? Why do I keep tryin' ta- The reptiles aren't...- I don't deserve 'em.'_

The crimson streak captured his attention and held it. Held his stare almost hypnotically.

_'This is what I got, what I made of my life. This is mine... All mine. What I deserve. I need to accept it, or it's gonna drive me fuckin' insane. Heh, then I'd be a real psycho. Wouldn't that be hilarious?'_

He _did_ smile then, bitterly. Because, how else could he react in this situation? His insides hurt, but the feeling was starting to go away, replaced by a numbness that he wholly welcomed as he stared at the streak of red on metal.

That red stain, foreboding but consistent and familiar, was his life. The things he once had were no longer something he could count on in this life he presently led.

He pulled his hands into fists and widened his stance, considering another assault on the steel barrier. Not for any real reason; simply because he could. It was there, and he had no reason not to. An aggressive act, carried out blindly. That's what he knew; that's what he did so often. That was the static norm.

But, for once, he did not throw another punch.

This time, he moved his hands to hover over the hilts of his sais.

Slowly, he turned to face the camera.

The one in the corner that had been there for as long as he could remember. Since he'd first disconnected the cable, it had remained unused and he'd almost forgotten its presence. But now, the cable was fixed. The little red light indicated that it was in-use.

Someone was watching. Always watching. Spying.

And right now, Raphael wondered if that someone was laughing at his foolish behavior.

 _'Enjoying yer little nature documentary?'_ he mentally quipped, lips curling back to bare his teeth, snarling. _'Enjoy watchin' me make a fool outta myself while you sit in a damn chair and make fun of me? Yeah, make fun of the mutant psycho turtle. See where that gets ya. A sai in the eye would shut ya up, wouldn't it?! See ya watch me then!'_

The thought was aggressive, heated with hate and disdain. Threatening. For a moment, he considered what he could do... if he got his hands on the man behind the camera. His bare hands, green and scared with only 3 fingers. Monstrous hands with fantastic strength. _'I could rip ya apart... Tear yer arms right outta socket.'_ He chuckled darkly at the very idea, imagining a lazy slob of a worker, eating Cheetos while eying the surveillance feed but not really paying attention. He imagined what he might do, with or without a weapon. The feeling of soft flesh under his fingers as he might choke the life out of some dumb fuck.

It was almost amusing to consider, however unlikely.

The thoughts in his head, however unwarranted and merciless, were fleeting enough.

Because, if there was one thing Raphael hated more than anything else in the world, it was his tendency to think. The ability itself: a horror in its own right.

He preferred action.

Action was always better. Action got the job done. Thinking just caused problems.

So, he didn't think when he drew a sai and gave it an expert spin in his grip.

He didn't even consider the consequences when he let his vision tunnel on the camera.

And... he'd stopped caring altogether by the time he launched the sai and watched the blade of it pierce the camera's eye.

Because, someone would come. Someone would come to either check on him or fix the camera. Someone would be pissed that he'd thrown the small tantrum.

But Raphael couldn't care less.

Because that also meant that someone would open the damn door.

And for that, he waited several breaths. Then several minutes.

Then he stopped measuring time.

With no one coming to investigate the busted camera, and with himself essentially locked in a white box, he was at a loss of what to do. And his distress showed plainly on his features as he turned his focus back to the bloodied door.

Approaching it hesitantly, he stared at the red. He breathed in the coppery scent. Then, hesitantly, he raised a hand and pressed a finger to the door, dipping the digit into the still-wet essence.

Experimentally, he dragged his finger down, painting a long line.

He stared at the line.

Red.

The color of life and death. The color that haunted him. The color that once meant the world to him.

He dipped his finger in the blood and drew another line- this one curved and connected to the first.

He stared at his newest line for a solid three seconds before re-dipping his finger and drawing one last line, this one straight but running downward at an angle.

When he was decidedly done, he found himself staring at a large red letter R.

Bold and triumphant. Crimson.

Some simple part of his mind rationed that the act as well as the sight of the letter should make him feel better. It should have offered him some sort of comfort.

But, instead, he felt next to nothing.

The anxiety he'd felt was gone. Ripped away and replaced by emptiness.

Coldness.

The anger and frustration, replaced by a hollow sensation he couldn't explain.

Unsure of what else to do, he tore his gaze away from the door- away from the R- and moved to sit on the bed.

He looked around aimlessly. Not knowing what to do. Having no objective. Feeling completely like a useless tool.

Inanimate.

Unreal.

For a moment, he brought his hands before his eyes and stared, questioning reality and his role in it. His existence... nightmarish at best.

He dropped his hands into his lap, his appendages limp and without purpose.

Unused tools. Unproductive. Unnecessary.

Opening and closing his eyes slowly, his vision threatened to blur. His mind tried to drift, but he curled his toes and looked back to the door.

His mind was pulling, as if trying to detach itself from his physical form.

Still, he kept his eyes focused on the door.

Some small part of him was hoping the door would unlock and open up. And someone would be there to help.

Someone would be able to distract him, or take away his problems altogether.

His hope started to dwindle with each passing second.

Reluctantly, he closed his eyes and lowered his head, chin nearly touching his upper plastron.

There was an underlying temptation to let his mind go. To free it. To unburden it of his woes.

And perhaps he would have... if the door opened in that exact moment, allowing two familiar humans to enter the room.

The first human. An unarmored Oroku Saki, clothed in simple slacks and a black turtleneck. Hands in his pockets and a look of appraisal on his face.

The second human. None other than Professor Jordan Perry. White lab coat on and a clipboard in hand.

Hearing them enter, Raphael looked up, but his eyes were unfocused, and he could just barely make out the fuzzy outlines that stood before him. "Don't feel good," he said, voice raspy, mouth dry, head spinning.

"Doctor," Shredder began, but no further command was necessary as Perry moved in to examine and assess.

Raphael closed his eyes tightly before opening them, hoping to clear away the bleariness in his eyes, to no avail. He raised his 3-fingered hands, holding them mere inches away from his face, but the details of his scarred flesh were lost to his eyes. Lowering his hands, he settled his gaze on his human-master.

"I can explain," he tried to speak, to explain himself, but the human cut in quickly.

"I do not require an explanation unless you want to give it. You are in no way, shape, or form obligated to tell me your whereabouts or actions. However... I'm afraid I need to exercise a bit of damage control for the sake of the city. You've caused quite a scare."

Raphael paid no heed to the professor as the man jabbed a needle into the firm muscular bicep and extracted a vial of blood. Instead, his focus remained wholly on his human-master. "Sorr-" he tried to apologize, but he was once again cut off by Shredder.

"Save your apologies. None is needed here, Raphael. I have considered what little I know of your outing, and I've decided an appropriate punishment."

"Punishment?" Raphael repeated softly, almost dazed, head spinning. He felt sick.

Shedder nodded curtly in response. "Yes, a punishment," he reiterated.

"Ya... gonna confine me here? Ta this prison?" Raph ground out, his mind surfacing memories of punishments he'd received when under the rule of his former rat-master.

To Raph's surprise, however, Shredder responded with a simple: "No." After a moment's pause, the human added, "Central is not a prison, and you are not a prisoner. You are free to come and go as you choose. We've established this."

Raphael's browline creased in confusion.

The professor jotted down a few notes on his clipboard before moving to test the mutant's reflexes.

Shredder procured and held up a long thin stretch of fabric.

A particularly red strip of fabric.

He held it out towards Raphael.

"This, Raphael," the human said simply, "is your punishment."

Without any conscious thought, Raphael found his hand reaching to touch his own emerald face, to lightly trace around his eyes where his mask once resided. The very concept of wearing one again seemed foreign. Strange. Uncomfortable. "My... mask?" he asked hoarsely, eying the cloth warily, as if it might bite him.

But Shredder didn't answer right away. Instead, he closed the gap between them in two long strides before pressing the cloth over the turtle's eyes and tying it securely.

Raphael felt his breath hitch. "This... is my punishment?" He reached a hand to the back of his head and felt the knot and tails of the fabric.

Opening and closing his eyes, his vision was null.

"It is not a mask, Raphael," Shredder said with a knowing smirk that went unseen. "You will find no eye holes for allotted vision. It is a blindfold."

"But, how-?"

"You will wear it. And you will not take it off for the next forty-eight hours. That is your punishment."

"What am I supposed ta do if I can't even see?"

"If you need assistance, Raphael, you will ask. And you will ask nicely, or be denied."

"I could just take it off," Raph mumbled, mostly to himself but loud enough for his master to hear.

Shredder crossed his arms and observed his mutant-disciple for a long moment before responding. "Yes, yes, you could. But you won't. It is your punishment, and you will serve it without complaint. And when it is over, I will remove the blind and you will thank me for it. Consider this another trust exercise."

"Trust?" Raphael echoed needlessly, frowning deeply.

"Yes, trust. I will trust you to obey my simple rule of not removing the blindfold, and you will trust the Foot to assist you when needed. Likewise, you will trust me to keep my promise and remove the bind in two days' time."

After that, silence became a tyrannical force, almost overwhelming.

Perry continued with the routine checkup, concluding it with a declaration of good health. "Everything seems to be in order..."

Hearing that, Raphael was hesitant but slowly shook his head. "Doc," he addressed quietly, shifting uncomfortably. "I might not- I, uh, ain't been feelin' too good," he confessed awkwardly.

Perry cocked his head to the side in a questioning manner. "Everything checks out. Even your blood pressure is normal- well, normal for you. What seems to be the trouble?"

Again, Raph was hesitant before slowly raising a hand and resting it on his head. "Headaches. Weird dreams. Feel sick."

"Well, I'm not a licensed therapist, but- color me intrigued- I'd be willing to listen, if you want to talk about it."

Raph drew in a deep breath, held it, and decompressed his lungs languidly. "We got that doctor-patient confidentiality thing?"

Perry turned to look at his employer. "Sir, if you don't mind, I believe the turtle would like some privacy..."

Raphael couldn't see a reaction, and no words came as an answer, but he was easily able to pick up on the sound of trailing footsteps as someone in Oxford shoes walked away, heels clicking against the tiles in tandem. He didn't have to listen hard at all to hear the door open and shut. Then, he heard nothing but breathing. His own, and the doctor's. Another deep breath, and Raphael found himself moving to lay down on the bed, legs stretched out and hands behind his head.

Then... "Don't make fun of me, or I'll punch ya... But sometimes, I dream when I ain't even sleepin'. It's amazin', ta see all these colors. They look like they're alive- but that's impossible, right? Colors can't be alive. But, it feels... different. Can't explain it. And, in my dream, I look different. Like, I know sometimes people dream themselves to look like they wanna look, but it ain't like that. I'm still a turtle. Still a freak. But, I ain't got all the scars. And then, there's this paper, but it ain't really paper... And then there's this puddle; it's so damn bright..."

As Raphael, blinded but comfortable in the familiar bed, tried for the first time to explain the vivid images in his head, he didn't take note of the extra human in the room- the one that had never really left; rather, the human had faked an exit and remained by the door, silent, curious, listening...


	50. Ch 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH 49**

* * *

Opening and closing his eyes made no difference to what he saw. Blackness, tinted in the faintest red due to the color of the blinding fabric. With his eyes open, he was greeted with a seemingly infinite chasm of cosmic space devoid of stars. Hell without an inferno: a limbo of sorts. So, it stood to reason that he kept his eyes closed more often than not, only blinking when the unconscious desire struck him.

It was certainly different. Eyes open- open to blackness. Eyes closed- closed to blackness. In his own personal realm of security, it was safe enough to say that everything faded to black.

Everything hid in the shadows.

The contradiction presented by the existence and necessity of light was a brand of poison.

If the mutant were to be completely honest with himself, it was a strange thing, to be blinded- not for the lack of sight, after all, he was a trained ninja, and darkness was his greatest ally; rather, the most bizarre part was feeling cloth against his face, the knot behind his head and the tails that draped either along his carapace or over his shoulders.

The feeling, so foreign, yet familiar. It stirred an unrelenting ache and drew forth memories. Too many memories of his previous mask coming on and off, sticking to his flesh when wet...

While there was a time he'd felt unease without the mask in place- as if the simple band had held him together and kept him strong and secure, stagnant- somehow, the absence of cloth made things seem bearable, less harrowing.

Presently, he wished this new fabric away, and he was so tempted to just reach up, tug the knot loose, and remove it. But he didn't relent the temptation. He refused.

His will, turned iron.

Knowing that his human-master had trusted him enough to leave it on and endure the simple punishment, he complied. He would not betray the faith of the human who'd taken him in when the rest of the world would sooner offer rebuke.

That fact alone surfaced guilt within Raphael.

Because Shredder had been so kind to him, granting him food, shelter, a purpose, and so much more... yet, when Raph finally had an opportunity to repay that kindness: a chance to retrieve Leonardo's sword and gift it to his master... he'd panicked, turned tail, and run off without it. Like a miserable, foolish coward. On top of the neglected task, he'd spent far too long with the reptiles his master deemed enemies. Then, to further complicate things, Raph had openly exposed himself to a number of civilians and the media.

For that, three words come to mind.

_'Stupid. Foolish. Reckless...'_

Of course, at the time, he'd been so sure of himself and his actions. So prepared for consequences. So ready to run and face the music when his turn came about in the brutal purgatory that was his life.

But he couldn't prepare well enough; not for the growing pit of regret and disdain towards himself and his duplicity. And he couldn't ignore it either. The harsh feelings itched beneath his skin, crawled beneath his flesh like parasites, and made a long trek to his brain, where they proceeded to worm their way inside, feasting on him, seeding his mind with doubt and grief.

Making him feel ill, unsettled, and tempted to rip the flesh from his frame, just for an impossible chance to rid himself of an imaginary threat.

An intangible horror.

A hatred that berthed more hatred.

An anger that set his soul on fire and turned its wrath inwards.

And, in the end, he had to wonder: _'Was it worth it? My deeds, weighin' against the consequences. My life, wasted, ruined. All wrong. Ten kinds of fucked... Dammit. I know what I should do. I know what I wanna do. So, why can't I do it? Accept the fate I threw myself towards? Why can't I just stick with my path, succeed at somethin' instead of failin' at everythin'? Leonardo woulda done it better. Woulda been able ta- No. Fuck the Leader-boy. This is my position. Not his. I'll figure it out. He ain't got nothin' ta do with this. None of the reptiles do. It's my life. My mistakes. My turn to fix it.'_

He could admit it, that he'd been wrong.

That he'd royally fucked up.

Only action would mend what words never could. And, for the one he affectionately called 'Soupy,' he'd try to make amends. He'd clean up his act. He'd be a better ninja, a better student, and a better heir.

_'A better son. I can be that. Fer Soupy.'_

This was his resolve. For as long as he could maintain focus, this would be his goal. To prove himself. To be better. To succeed. To make up for his shortcomings.

For his master. For himself. And for the future that lie ahead of him.


	51. Ch 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: Alright, I got a little creative with this chapter. And there's some mild April-bashing at the end. Good luck!

**CH 50**

* * *

Despite his lack of sight and the obvious unease brought on by the feel of the loathsome fabric of the blind stretching around his head, Raphael felt oddly secure in his position, laid back on the bed with his eyes closed. As if he hadn't a care in the world... And, perhaps he hadn't. Because Central was safe. The familiar scents of the Infirmary kept him grounded, and if there was any doubt in himself and his stability, that crude red letter R was still painted on the door- blood dry and flaking, but still visible to anyone without a blind. That fact was odd but somehow comforting, to know it was there but not have to confront it.

A strange sort of passive assurance that he did not want to analyze, after all, he was not the analytical sort. That role belonged to-

_'No... Don't think about them.'_

In truth, he didn't want to think. Thinking seemed, more often than not, to be his own personal enemy. Thinking brought to light truths that were best left ignored. If he didn't think, he could pretend the problems away. Like magic.

For as long as he could set his mind on something simple and focus solely on that, he didn't have to think about the life he walked away from. About everyone he let down. About how he continued to stray closer to the fire even though he knew it would burn.

In his own warped logic, he could outburn that fire. He could, and he would. But now was not a time for heat or intensity.

Now was a time to endure, persevere, and carry on. React without over-reacting.

He could do this; it was simple enough.

Lying comfortably in the bed he'd claimed as his own...

 _'I need to brush my teeth...'_ The thought came out of nowhere, but it was warranted enough, he figured, due to the fact that he could literally _taste_ his breath. Systematically pushing that small bit of information out of his mind, he focused on the matter at hand.

The bespectacled man was currently acting as a stand-in therapist of sorts, and while Raphael usually opted to keep things to himself and brood in silence, he welcomed it.

The dreaded: "How does that make you feel?" almost made Raph chuckle. Almost. Because it was so cliche, so bogus, so expected yet unexpected. But it felt good to talk, to get it all off his chest. Almost like writing. And regardless of how sloppy his penmanship was, he could appreciate writing as both an act and an art.

Somehow, this little counseling session had been freeing. Therapeutic.

Then...

"Turtle," Professor Jordan Perry spoke, voice calm and tone even, "what I would like to try is a bit outside my own expertise, but how do you feel about guided meditation?"

Raphael grew quiet, thoughtful... for half a second before responding. "Meditation blows, and I don't like ta be guided through nothin'." Then, he paused for genuine consideration before adding, "but I'll try anythin' once. Twice, if I'm in a good mood or there's a reward that comes with it."

The professor gave a nod, set his clipboard aside, moved to a dimmer-switch on the wall and doused the lights- more for effect than necessity. Then, returning to Raphael's side, his footsteps loud and purposeful, he drew in a deep breath and instructed his mutant-patient to do the same.

"Deep, calming breaths. Slow and steady. Focus on breathing. Anything you've got on your mind, I want you to let it go. Just focus on breathing. Only breathing and the sound of my voice."

Not thinking too highly on the subject but deciding to humor the good doctor, Raph complied, relaxing as much as possible before drawing air deep into his lungs, holding it, and then slowly expelling it; then, repeating. He hadn't any faith in the attempted exercise, but after a few minutes of forcing his breathing to calm, it almost seemed natural. A few more minutes, and his head began to clear itself, almost as if he was tired, half-asleep, but he was still alert, still awake and aware, yet everything around him seemed muddled, as if he was hearing and sensing it through a dense fog.

His lungs almost ached with the strain of his breathing, desiring to take in more oxygen at a faster pace despite his conscious instructions. A few more minutes, and he almost wondered if oxygen was making it to his brain at all; he felt oddly light-headed, but not sick. Not nauseous.

In time, his throat grew uncomfortably cold and dry from the stemming airflow, but he hardly noted that, too busy focusing on just how heavy he felt, as if his body was full of lead. But he kept breathing.

Breathing.

Breathing, as if the act itself was all he could rightfully comprehend.

In and out. Slowly. He could accomplish that much.

He _liked_ breathing.

Breathing was important.

In and out. He could do it forever.

Professor Perry watched over the mutant with a curious glint in his eyes. He had a specific set of instructions to follow, and he intended to do just that. So, after reading through his notes and assuring himself of his loyalty to his employer, he spoke again to the turtle, this time lowering his voice an octave or two, drawing his words in a soothing manner. "Feel the steady rhythm of your heart, and focus on that. You're too tense, too stiff. Relax your body slowly, starting with your toes and slowly, slowly working your way up."

Raphael obliged the doctor's orders, but there was almost no thought behind doing so. Complying, at this point, almost seemed like an auto-response. His toes uncurled; his ankles allowed his feet to slacken against the sheets beneath him; the muscles in his calves lost their tautness, and little by little, he allowed himself to virtually melt into the bed. His hips and hands, wrists, elbows, and shoulders- every bit of him grew lax. Lastly, his lips parted, mouth open wide as his breathing became just a bit more audible.

The professor watched with rapt attention, studying the mutant before him for several long minutes that seemed to stretch into a small eternity. Then, with a mix of caution and curiosity, Perry reached over and placed a hand on Raphael's forearm, half-expecting a violent or startled reaction. What he got, however, was nothing. No movement, not differentiation in respiration. Moving his hand down to the mutant's wrist, he was pleased to see that to see that Raphael's pulse was normal as well.

Pulling his hand away and reclaiming his clipboard, the professor jotted down a quick note before clearing his throat and speaking again to the mutant turtle. "Can you hear me?" he questioned.

But no response came.

He tried again. "Turtle, if you can hear me, raise your hand."

Still no response.

"Wiggle your fingers or toes. Do something that suggests cognition."

Nothing.

Frowning, Perry quickly turned to look at his eavesdropping employer, uncertain of what to do at this point.

From his position near the door, Shredder stood, clothed in simple black garb- ironically so, a turtleneck sweater and slacks. Standing there, poised, silent, he radiated with an aura of patience he usually spared no one. Because this was his project. This was his game. And it was his turn. Each move he made had to be precise and controlled, and in the end, he would reap the reward for his work. But first, baby steps. He couldn't crush the mutant all at once; it had to happen a little at a time, so as not to cause alarm. He needed the turtle's trust and devotion for now...

"Raphael," Shredder said sternly, voice relatively quiet, but it sounded as loud as dynamite in the too-still atmosphere of the Infirmary.

Raphael's breath hitched the slightest bit at hearing his master's call.

The professor took note.

"Raphael," Shredder spoke again, "raise your hand. Now."

Without the faintest hint of hesitation, Raphael's left arm bent 90 degrees at the elbow-joint, and his hand rose.

Perry stared, gawking, astounded. Being a man of science, a practice of this nature eluded his understanding. This was well within the realms of hypnosis, which he also found to be full of fault and distortion. Cult-fiction. Yet here he was, watching undeniable proof as a completely conscious being lost direct control of their actions.

"Your _other_ hand, Raphael," Shredder cut in, interrupting the professor's musings, speaking in that same stern voice that the mutant had obeyed previously.

Without further prompt, Raphael lowered his left hand and raised his right on queue.

"Can you hear me?" Shredder questioned, voice losing its sharp edge and becoming almost conversational.

No response.

"Raphael, you _will_ answer my questions without fail, or suffer the consequences. Now, can you hear me?"

"Yeah," Raph spoke easily enough, voice a little rough, as his throat had gone dry. Then, he moved to lower his right hand, only to be stopped by his master's command.

"Keep your hand up. In fact, raise it higher," Shredder said, keeping a distance for now and nodding his approval as he watched a green 3-fingered hand inch its way skyward until it could go no further. Then, "Higher. You can do better than that, Raphael. Just a little higher..."

Raphael's right arm was raised as high as it could possibly go, from shoulder to fingertip, a steady inclination; yet, at the human's order, he worked his muscles to comply, regardless of futility. His entire arm quivered with the effort.

"Just a bit further, Raphael," Shredder coaxed, eyes gleaming with faint amusement.

"Sir," Perry spoke up, brows knitted together in confusion. "I'm afraid it is a physical impossibility for-"

_POP!_

The sound was deafeningly loud and sick as Raphael's arm dropped uselessly, the joint having been forced out of socket by stubborn will alone. If the emerald-skinned mutant felt any pain or was even aware of what had happened, he gave no visible reaction.

Surprised but not shaken, Shredder finally moved away from the door and closer to his inhuman disciple. Once he was at Raphael's bedside, he found his voice once more. "You've been telling Mr Perry an awful lot about this recurring _dream_ of yours... The one with the golden puddle that tries to suck you in. Raphael, I want you to recall that dream. Let your mind wander back to it. Then, describe it to me. Like a movie. You like movies, don't you? "

"Movies are cool," Raph responded, shifting slightly, as if trying to get more comfortable.

"Walk me through it," Shredder coaxed, grabbing a nearby chair and pulling it closer before seating himself. Then, he closed his eyes and proceeded to do his own breathing exercises as Raphael once again obeyed without heed.

"Colorful," the turtle said, eyes opening wide behind the blind, yet remaining functionless. "Skies... All red and yellow, like a sunset that don't go away."

In his head, Oroku Saki pictured the mesh of colors. "Keep going," he goaded.

"There's... so much red. The colors, alive; they... _feel_. They're angry and hurt. The colors, they-..."

"What about the colors, Raphael?"

"I... can't tell you," Raphael said, voice quieter than it had been, almost as if he were disappointed. "No one else can know." He kicked his feet out in a gesture of restlessness. "I don't want you to know. If I tell you, it won't be mine anymore. It has to be mine. Only mine."

Hearing this, Shredder opened his eyes and leaned forward in his seat, planting his elbows on corresponding knees. "You're... possessive of this dream, even though it scares you?"

Raphael's physical form twitched unnervingly, as if struggling beneath a something heavy and unforgiving, soul-crushing. His dislocated arm jostled, but the pain was lost on him.

"I won't take it from you, Raphael." Shredder attempted to soothe. "I just want you to describe it to me. It'll be our little secret. And, who knows? Maybe I can make the golden puddle go away."

"The puddle, it's so damn bright," Raph grumbled, sounding irritable. He raised his good arm, bringing a hand before his cloth-covered eyes, as if to shield himself from an entity such as the sun. "It's bright, but it's- it's down there... It can't get me."

"Down where, Raphael?" Shredder prodded, voice deceptively gentle. He reached out, taking Raphael's left hand in his own and guiding it down to a resting position. "Don't hide from it. Go to it. It's safe. It's warm. Observe it. Tell me about it."

"...don't wanna. Too bright."

"Do it. Now, Raphael. Find the golden puddle. Face it. And let me pull you from its hold."

Suddenly, without any warning, Raph bolted into an upright position, mouth open wide, caught between a silent scream and a desperate attempt to gulp in air; his body twisted horrifically, muscles straining, as if combating an invisible foe. He shook his head feverishly. "Safe..." he gasped. "This is supposed ta be a safe place. But it ain't," he said in a hushed tone, face scrunching up to convey a mix of pain and grief.

"Raphael, you are _in_ the visual representation of your entire self. This is where your mind and spirit converge. You trust me, don't you? Then, let me in. Tear down those walls. There are no enemies here."

Raphael's good hand gripped at the sheets, knuckles paling, nails biting and tearing into the sturdy blend of cotton fibers. His teeth gnashed together and he dug his heels into the foot of the bed. "Can't... I ain't gonna... I need-" He ground out the words through clenched teeth, his sentences incomplete. His entire body grew stiff, muscles bulging, as if trying to explode from their hold beneath his skin. He let out an agonizing wail and doubled over, retching, projectile vomiting a sick mixture of acids. The foaming liquid mess covered his legs, ankles feet, and blanket in a gnarly spray, but he showed no signs of noticing. Breathing in short choppy breaths, one shaky hand moved to grip at the hilt of a sai, and there was a notable sense of relief in his body language at acknowledging its presence... despite the fact that the other sai was still planted in the dead-eye of the camera on the wall. Gripping the one remaining sai and pulling it from the respective hold, he struck out blindly, almost catching Professor Perry on the arm.

"Sir," Perry cried out in alarm, nearly shouting his surprise. "He's panicking. Whatever you're attempting, abort it! Abort it now!"

Offering a sneer to his employee, Oroku Saki hissed: "I do not take orders from you, Mr Perry. If you are so concerned, then you may either strap him down or sedate him... I am not done here. Should he attempt to harm _me_ , I will put him in his place and be done with it."

...

* * *

_[Astral Plane]_

Raphael found himself on the ground, beneath the crushing hold of his monstrous, mask-wearing duplicate. Struggling seemed futile, but he had to fight it, whatever _it_ was.

This monster was taunting him, teasing him, and sucking the life right out of him, and there was little he could do about it from his position.

But he had to try. His own brash and defiant nature bade him to do so. If words were his only weapon, he'd wield them with pride.

And yet, he settled for an accusing glare and a rather confrontational quip of: "Who the fuck are ya?" He managed to ask as the colorful atmosphere around him began to shift and turn an ugly sepia tone before greying completely. Then, even more unsettling, the skies flashed with a pending storm. Blank papers flew about in an imaginary whirlwind, and lightning struck in the distance.

It truly looked like a scene from a black-and-white horror flick.

The masked spirit-creature obliged the question with a deep chuckle and a long-awaited answer. " _You_ ," it said simply, voice dark and foreboding. "I am the thing inside you that makes you run. I am the thing you try so hard to escape. I am your failure. Your regrets. Your anger... I am everything you fear, everything you hide from, and everything you let go. I remember ever ounce of blood you've shed. Every dark thought in the deepest recesses of your mind... I... am what controls you when emotion takes over and your vision becomes null. I am your guilt and sorrow; your anger and pain. And, like a daily dose of medication, I feed it to you... And the only reason I'm here, is because you _like_ it." The creature opened its gangly jowls wide, the stench on its breath nearly visible as it swiped its tongue over the shark-like teeth.

For a moment, Raphael was frozen, wide-eyed, staring into this monster's mouth and wondering if it might eat him. But the fear passed, written off as something ridiculous as he worked to focus on what this beast had implied.

_'You. Like. It.'_

As the words registered, Raphael decided then and there that he would have none of that. He would fight tooth and nail to deny such sick and twisted bullshit. "I don't fuckin' like it! I'm not a monster like you are!" he shot back, struggling beneath the beast's crushing weight, fire burning within him, urging him to overpower the impossible.

"You like it." The taunt continued, simple but effective.

"Fuck you." The rebuttal, crude but unshakable.

But the spirit-creature only laughed. "Fuck me? Oh, not even in your dreams, Raphael. Now, let me save you."

"I'm fine! I don't need savin'!"

The beast chuckled darkly, bringing its face closer to Raphael's; its breath... rank, like dead rodent... Roadkill. "I think you _do_ need saved. You just don't want it. Not yet. You're too busy _enjoying_ yourself. Being a martyr. A masochist. A psycho, and a freak."

Shaking with anger and frustration, Raphael's spiritual self let out a frustrated cry, trying and failing to get his own inner-demon to relinquish him. "You ain't even real," he countered, speaking the words more for himself than the larger turtle. "You're a voice in my head. You're words on paper. Fiction. You're fuckin' fiction!"

"And you're a delusional little shit who ran away from home. And, in your self-righteous plight, you justify playing puppet to the enemy."

"Shredda ain't my enemy!"

"But you _are_ a _puppet_ , aren't you? That human moulded you so well; I can barely see the seams..."

Raphael growled lowly, closing his eyes tightly. He didn't want to be in this position or hear these words slung at him, but he was trapped. In his own mind, beneath the personification of his own inner darkness.

It would be poetic, if it weren't so terrifying.

Lightning struck in the distance, and as a small stretch of silence fell between himself and the monster, he allowed himself to get lost in that flash of light.

For a moment, he felt like he was suffocating, but there was no panic to that fact, so he dismissed it entirely.

Then, the creature spoke again. "Stop fighting your instincts. That fire that pulls you into the fight and carries you through life, you're losing it. You're becoming _domesticated_. And what's more, you're _letting_ it happen. You're becoming a _pet_ to a filthy human."

"You're wrong," Raphael grunted, but the agitation was forced, almost completely devoid of conviction. "Shredda's been there for me. He took me in. He offered me redemption. He-"

"He bred you into a thief and a murderer, Raphael. And you let it happen."

"That ain't true." As Raphael's spiritual self spoke this time, his voice was low, despondent. The weight of his inner-demon was literally crushing him, yet he stopped struggling. Stopped pushing back. "I didn't let nothin' happen. I was in control. My actions were my own." Those words, so easily spoken, parroted.

Words he'd heard preached to him by the Shredder himself on a regular basis.

"My actions were my own..."

"Were they?" As the dark creature hissed out the taunting question, he pressed all his weight against the smaller turtle's form.

Unable to form a response, Raphael forgot how to breathe.

...

* * *

_[Physical world]_

"Sir, the turtle isn't breathing! If we don't do something now, he is not going to wake up! At this rate, he will die-"

"Mr Perry, will you kindly shut your mouth before I am forced to cut out your tongue? I'm close. I can feel the barrier Raphael uses to protect his mind and house his spirit; it is weak, and I intend to breach it."

"There won't be anything to breach if the turtle dies!"

"He won't die. And, even if he did, it would be no concern of yours."

"But-!"

"Mr Perry, you are dismissed. Please leave. I'll call for you if I need you."

...

The professor paced the length of the hall, ignoring the inquisitive stares cast his way by a number of teens and young adults in Foot attire. Stress and unease ate away at his core.

Yes, he was indeed a man of science. Yes, he was loyal to his employer. However, some things were beyond justification. While the mutant turtle fascinated him, he saw no reason to allow harm- or death, if it could be avoided.

His pacing continued, hand in his pocket and gripping his phone, awaiting a call that would grant him access to his ailing subject.

After nearly half an hour of pacing, he felt the familiar vibration of his private cell, alerting him of a call. Caught between apprehension and relief, he drew his phone, and answered, expecting Oroku Saki's voice to fill the other line with a simple command.

What he got, however, was: _"Jordan Perry? Associate of TGRI? This is... Carmen... San... Diego... from Chanel -uh...- the NEWS! Calling to request an interview to discuss-"_

"Mrs... Diego? I'm afraid now isn't a good time. You see-"

 _"-oww, Donnie, I'm trying! Shhhh!- You stepped on my foot!- Wait!- Hey!"_ with that, the line went dead.

Perry was baffled.

...

* * *

_[Meanwhile...]_

"Jeeze, nice going, April. -Or, should I say: _Carmen SanDiego?_ " Donatello's voice was heavily laced with sarcasm and frustration. "Really?! That's the best you could come up with?"

April flushed at the indignation before raising her chin defiantly. "Excuse me! I was under a lot of pressure!"

Rolling his eyes and waving her off, Don showed no sympathy for her plight. "Next time, why don't you try claiming to be Megan Fox? Even _that_ would be more believable."

April huffed and crossed her arms. "I was trying to help. You're not doing a great job either, Donnie," she muttered heatedly. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you didn't _want_ to find Raphael at all."

Hearing that, Don froze, eyes wide, blood turning to ice, hurt and disbelief coursing through him like he'd never known. "What?" he choked out the word.

"You're quiet about your problems, Donnie," April added listlessly, "but it's no secret that Raphael gets in your way. Always getting injured and needing you to patch him up and kiss his boo-boos. He takes up a fair amount of your time, taking you away from your experiments... Even now, I bet you can't remember the last project you had time to focus on due to Raphael's ridiculous departure."

"April, my brother is not burden, nor is he ridiculous. My last project was _your_ damn microwave... Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go... before I do something I regret." As he made his way to the window that would grant him access to the roof, he paused, almost needing to get in one good shot at her to retaliate against her implications. "Never thought I'd say this, April, but... Casey can do better."


	52. Ch 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: *insert words here, dude*

**CH 51**

* * *

"What- What are we doin'?" Raphael rasped, mouth dry, tongue heavy and pasty, throat sore from the way he'd improperly removed the naso-gastric feeding tube that had gone through his nasal passage and run the length of his esophagus, into his stomach.

The words, as they left his mouth, sounded strange. He couldn't tell how loud or quiet he was speaking; every sound- harsh or soft- met his ear slits with the same stale, muted quality.

"What are we doin'?" he asked again, eyes shut tightly, squinting beneath the blind.

This time, thankfully, he garnished a response. "What do you mean, Raphael? You're in the Infirmary, healing." Shredder's voice. Calm, poised, and completely capable of permeating the turtle's muddled senses.

Feeling weak and exhausted, Raphael struggled to sit up, making slight progress, only to fall back onto his pillow. He licked his lips in a futile attempt to moisten them. Then, "I just... don't know what I'm doin' anymore," he confessed, grunting in discomfort as he curled his toes and bent his legs, feeling entirely too stiff and sluggish. "I thought I had it all figured out. It made sense before, but there's all this stuff in my head. And... I dunno."

Raphael heard a slight shuffle of motion, but he couldn't see; the blindfold made certain of that. So, when he felt a 5-fingered hand touch his face in what was meant to be a soothing gesture, he wanted to flinch. And, under any other circumstance, he would have done just that... but for now, he was too physically exhausted to do such a thing.

Shredder's breath, smelling of mint and ginger, washed over Raph's face with his next words. "Raphael, make no mistake, you have a purpose here, and everything will be fine." He spoke evenly, retracting his hand and stepping away.

Raphael listened and counted the retreating footsteps, knowing that his human-master hadn't gone far.

"You are under my leadership and guidance. You protect the city. The people of New York need you."

With a soft hiss, Raphael cut in: "I scared 'em. I got stupid. I scared a group of humans. Probably all over the news..."

"I handled it. A patsy in a costume. Some bribery to the tabloids. As far as the general public is concerned, it was all a hoax, and your mishap never occurred." Shredder's words and tone were precise and alleviating.

Raphael was honestly glad to hear it. In his fog-laden mind, he needed the assurance, and he was grateful to know that his mistake had been covered.

But the human wasn't done speaking. "New York needs a hero, Raphael. Why shouldn't it be you? No one else holds the city in higher regards. No one else cares or has the capability that you do... This is what you've always wanted, isn't it? To protect those who cannot protect themselves? It can happen. And, in time, it will."

Raphael's browline creased beneath the blindfold, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It sounds great, but... it sounds a little _too_ great. What's the catch?"

"No catch, Raphael. This is what you wanted, and once you are healed and your condition is primed to meet my standards, I will unleash you unto the city. You will cleanse the streets of criminal scum and gangbangers. You will save the innocents. Because, everyone needs saving, Raphael. Those people need you. And... believe it or not, I need you as well."

Hearing the slight speech, Raphael let out a small choked sound that he cleverly disguised as a cough; then he couldn't help questioning: "You... do? Ya need me?"

"Of course." The answer came easily enough. "You have been a great asset to this clan, but you have also been fair company. I enjoy our little trysts and the meals we share. Honestly, I... am honored to call you my son."

Raphael took in the words, trying hard to process their meaning and the seemingly infinite kindness behind them. A faint voice argued for him not to be so trusting, but his brain was barely working at half its usual capacity, and he consciously ignored it. His thoughts seemed to collide with one another into a jumbled mess until he wasn't sure what he was thinking at all. He was quiet for an immeasurable amount of time, and when he spoke next, he only managed a barely audible request of: "water?"

Without further prompt, Shredder moved to the counter to grab the plastic cup that had been deemed Raphael's long ago. Moving to the small sink, he filled it from the tap, turning off the water and returning to the mutant's side. Clearing his throat to gain attention, he carefully pressed the cup into Raphael's hand.

Attempting to sit up, the entirety of Raphael's body shook with the effort, yet he made little progress. With his head slightly inclined, he brought the cup to his beak and tried to take a drink, spilling at least half of the liquid down his chin and neck, then choking on the little bit he managed to swallow.

Shredder watched, soundless, unamused and unimpressed... but completely understanding.

Because, Raphael had _died_. For eight and a half minutes, his heart had stopped. It had taken Perry and an entire team of professional-grade medics entirely too long to revive the mutant, but it had been done.

Raphael was alive. Weakened, but alive. That's what mattered.

By the professor's explanation, intense stress over an extended period of time coupled with inefficient coping, had caused the mutant's body to speed up hormone production- and, it was simply too much for him to handle.

Jordan Perry had explained:  
 _"When perceiving danger, a system kicks into gear: A chain reaction of signals releasing hormones — most notably epinephrine (adrenaline), norepinephrine, and cortisol. The hormones boost heart rate, increase respiration and increase the availability of glucose in the blood, thereby enabling the well-known 'fight or flight' reaction. Because these responses take a lot of energy, stress simultaneously tells other costly physical processes — including digestion, physical growth, and some aspects of the immune system — to yield or shut down. My supposition is, a malfunction between the signals carried from the brain to the body must have stopped both his lungs and his heart from working... In short, Raphael's stress was literally the death of him."_

That's what the man had said.

But for now... Raphael was fine; his condition was stabilized. Having Raphael revived was a triumph all its own. Knowing that his spirit would be weakened during recovery was an added bonus. Now, all Shredder had to do, was play his cards right, and he'd get exactly what he wanted.

He always did.

...

* * *

_[Later, with Shredder]_

He pulled on his armor, piece by piece. A young woman of Asian descent helped to secure it all in place. His kabuto came on next to last, followed by the menpo, which he took a long moment to examine before donning. Because it was new, shiny, freshly polished.

Almost completely encased in metal, Shredder tested his new gauntlets with retractable blades. Decidedly satisfied with the sleek design and the ease of use, he pulled the blades back into the sheath along his forearms before walking gracefully across the room, stopping once he reached a darkened corner. Then, with a simple clap of the hands, a spotlight poured down, illuminating a whole new suit of armor, much different than his own but no less intimidating.

In time, this armor would be fitted and gifted to his mutant-heir.

But not yet.

There were far too many flaws to be ironed out first.

The young Asian woman stepped away for a moment, returning quickly to the Shredder's side with the Golden Shuriken in her grasp. With a respectful bow, she presented the relic to her master.

Taking the proffered object into his hands and holding it at length, he observed it, noting with satisfaction how the glow dimmed like a dying bulb.

He needed that light to go out completely, signalling its detachment from a soul. Only then could he tap into its power. Only then would he move onto the next phase of his plan.

But for now, he waited, baiting time.

For now, he played a role, eloquently scripted to mislead his intent.


	53. Ch 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH 52**

* * *

_[Leo]_

It was undeniably cold; the rain poured down like thick liquid bullets. Bone-chillingly cold. The perfect setting for pending pneumonia. But one turtle didn't notice the icy blast of air between the unforgiving sprays of water that seemingly fell in sheets. Shielded by a worn old coat and nothing more, he had an overwhelming compulsion to stand, back to the wind, feet planted firmly on the rooftop, eyes searching through the dark wetness that engulfed him bodily.

Waiting. Oh, how he hated waiting, especially now, but it was all he could do. No amount of planning could permit him to do otherwise.

His resolve was firm, stubborn. He would wait. Outwardly, he appeared composed, determined: a turtle made of steel; but on the inside, a choke-worthy panic flared. Panic for his rogue brother's well-being. Because, something inside felt _wrong_. Something deep and unexplainable within him was shooting off signals, warning bells, foretelling of something downright horrific.

And, having no idea what could be wrong, he couldn't even begin to counteract whatever disaster was in store.

There was only so much planning he could do to face the unknown.

And right now, the only thing he knew for sure was that something felt off kilter.

His chest ached with a foreign sensation that demanded attention, but- _'But what can I do? I can't keep the team together. I can't keep my brothers safe.'_

Not knowing what else to do, Leo took a deep breath, drawing it deep into his lungs, and continued to ignore the icy chill in the air. Fortunately, an almost comfortable numbness had begun to set in, and he couldn't even feel the rain anymore. He could only hear it. The rapid-fire of thousands of drips hitting concrete and splashing its way into puddles. The distant thunder. The muted sounds of the living city around him, mostly drowned out by the white noise created by the weather.

The neon lights against the drizzle... it could almost be poetic in its beauty: nature against artificial ambiance.

But poetry was the last thing on this turtle's mind as he tried to discern the strange hollow feeling that had burrowed into his very core.

For a moment, he considered meditation. It could help, to find his center and sort through his thoughts.

In fact, the more he thought about it, the better it sounded.

_'Maybe I could find and reach Raph on the Astral Plane... Then, my worries would be eased at least a little.'_

The thought was there, and it was sounding better and better with each passing moment.

And, perhaps he would have carried out that course of action, if not for a lone black-clad figure approaching.

-Even with his senses dulled from stress and the raging storm that had formed, Leo was more than capable of sensing the presence of the oncoming ninja, and he had his swords drawn without a second thought.

_'Meditation will have to wait.'_

Leo quickly assessed his opponent and the pending threat, strategically keeping his distance. Ideally, if his foe opted to attack first, the turtle could gauge speed and possibly pick up on technique and fighting style- at least, that would be his intent if said foe had been armed.

If said foe had made a move toward him.

If said foe had done anything other than what he actually _did_ do.

Instead of going along with any of Leo's expectations, the black-clad figure raised both hands, palms facing outward in a universal gesture of peace before saying: "Turtle, we need to talk."

...

* * *

_[Raph]_

He couldn't be sure how much time had passed. He stopped counting; then again, he'd never really started. If he bothered to think about it, math just pissed him off. Numbers were math. Time was the evolution of numbers on a compulsory cycle. Thus, time... could go fuck itself sideways with a lead pipe for all Raph cared.

_'Yeah, that'd be fuckin' hilarious. See a big fat number 5 impalin' itself on a number 1. Heh, that's fucked up. Literally.'_ The emerald-skinned turtle's humor was dry and twisted, but he couldn't recall a time it was anything but.

Still, time- an existing factor on an infinitely evolutionary production line...

Minutes turned to hours, seconds breached the depths of infinity, and somewhere in the middle of it all, time itself collapsed inward and lost meaning.

_'Fuck it all. Twice.'_

One would think this to be a maddening experience- something to take the horrors of the mind and stretch them into something far more sinister.

A carnival attraction-

_Come one, come all- to the Greatest Show on Earth!_

-except, it wasn't.

In spite of time's new abstraction, imaginary horrors did not grow in length or morph into something akin to paranoia. Quite the opposite, in fact. Being blinded allowed Raphael to focus more on what was around him, while being unblinded afforded him the luxury and the distraction of whatever fell in line with his sight.

With his sight nullified, he was able to hyper-focus on the vibrations in the air; the way the atmosphere shifted differently for each person that entered the Infirmary.

While he could easily recognize someone's face with or without a mask, he was starting to learn them by scent and aura: their natural pulse.

Apart from the fabric being uncomfortable, he honestly didn't mind the alleged punishment; the idea was more nerve-wracking than the actual serving, and he considered himself adaptable; he could handle a little temporary blindness.

And, if worse came to worst, he could always remove the blind; he knew this, and there was a comfort in that fact: his ability, reliable and pragmatic... Though, with a degree of respect, he steadfastly treated the simple cloth like something inescapable. A straightjacket for his primary sense.

-For the most part, life continued to be his definition of normal. -Well, as normal as it could be at the moment.

Because, the truth of the matter was, dying sucked. Majorly. Worse than piss-warm beer. Just... terrible.

And while the details were still sketchy at best, there was no doubting that Raphael's life had been depleted prior to his revival.

His own very real HP gauge, emptied.

Had this been a game, his character might have been awarded a fantastic cutscene depicting valiant effort and an admirable death on the battle field... but in reality, he died on a lumpy bed in a too-white Infirmary, shut down by anxiety and something internal he couldn't quite grasp.

If he thought hard on it, he could picture that internal struggle. Two turtles. Both with emerald skin. One lean and toned, unmasked, immaculately unscarred. The other, large, almost mountainous, with jagged teeth and claws, and a brilliant red mask that looked perfectly complimentary...

If he thought hard on it, he could imagine a power-struggle of naivete and cynicism.

And while the darker, more vicious of the two easily dominated the fight, the smaller of the two stubbornly refused to give in.

If Raphael thought hard on it, he might consider that both entities in his mind were part of himself. Part of who he was. A divided set of extremities... but Raphael hated thinking.

Thinking is what drew him into this predicament. Thinking was the factor that pulled him out of the imaginary safety net he'd let himself drop into.

His mind was full of poison. His mind was the very thing that had taken his life, and if not for the decree of his human-master and the aid of the medical staff, he might not-

_'Might not be alive any more.'_ It was a frightening thought... but it was one that he couldn't disregard.

Shredder was the only reason for him to remain among the world of the living. And, considering the alternative, he was grateful.


	54. Ch 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
> 
> Author's Notes: Here we go. Raph-time. And Leo-time.

**CH 53**

* * *

_[Raph]_

The world of consciousness was a strange thing, and Raphael definitely preferred to have a clear head when he could afford it.

He talked to Perry when prompted, allowed himself to be examined and small vials of blood to be drawn, accepting whatever jargon-laced excuse was provided. And he found himself attentive and alert when his human-master graced him with his presence.

The blindfold hardly seemed a punishment at all- at least, until he needed to go to the bathroom...

_'Easy enough,'_ he thought to himself without a hint of stress or modesty. Off the bed, find the door, exit. Down the hall. Make a left, right, left, and- _'Aaand, now I'm lost.'_

Huffing with indignation, he reluctantly held out his hands- a universal sign of someone seeking help... or preparing to play the role of a zombie. Either way, his arms were outstretched, feeling for the nearest wall. Once he planted his palm against the solid surface, he felt a little better, more secure.

Sliding his hand along the wall, he made his way from one side of the hall to the other, pausing once he found himself in front of a door. Standing outside it, he listened carefully, hoping the sounds inside would give him an indication of which room it was- ergo, let him know exactly where he was.

Unfortunately, no sound turned up.

Feeling for a knob and finding it, he gave a twist and pulled the door open, stepping inside without hesitation.

"Hello?" He called out in greeting, stilling his breath to listen afterwards. "I'm, uhh..." he trailed off awkwardly, unsure of what to say, or whom he was even speaking to.

What _would_ he say?

He had to piss. Having to hold his bladder over the circumstance was starting to piss him off, but he quelled the pending aggression and tempted the frailty of his patience.

Thankfully, in that instance, a voice reached his ear slits, and the words were awing.

"Bathroom's out the door, down the hall- about twelve paces to the right."

Sighing with relief, Raph muttered his thanks and exited through the door, turning right and counting his paces.

_'Twelve paces ta the right. -Seven, eight, ni-'_

But on his ninth step, he found himself colliding face-first with a very unforgiving wall.

"Aw, fuck it!" he cursed, annoyed, pride wounded when his ear slits were assaulted with a barrage of snickering. "Immature fuckers," he barked at the teens who dared mock him. He crushed his hands into fists, preparing to fight anyone he could get his hands on. Blind or not, he was a badass fuckin' ninja, and he didn't have to take their shit.

He'd just reared back, preparing to strike, when another voice reached him; this one soft, easily washing over his burning anger with a calm, cool innocence.

That voice, a child's voice, carried only one word. But that one word was enough to halt Raphael in his tracks.

"Raffle?"

Taking a deep breath, filling his lungs to their maximum capacity, Raphael held it for several seconds before releasing it with a slow, steady exhale. "Timothy? Wha'cha doin' here?" he questioned airily.

"I could be askin' you the same thing, Raffle." Timothy quipped. "You're interruptin' my reading lesson." With that, the kid paused, cupping his hand beside his mouth and whispering loudly- as if he were telling a secret: "but that's okay; it's boooring anyways. I'd rather see you, Raffle!"

A second later, Raphael felt his hand grabbed between two smaller ones; then, he felt his hand touch hair and skin- and it didn't take a genius to realize that young Timothy was offering a sightless Raphael a chance to feel his features.

More out of curiosity than necessity, Raphael humored the kid, first feeling up the loose strands of hair, then moving down to the rounded chin. Then, up to the soft pouty lips and chubby cheeks. Then to the small upturned nose. Then- fabric.

_'What the fuck?'_

His hand stilled, touching a band of fabric where he should have found a set of eyes.

"Kid..." he addressed, voice soft and tone questioning.

Timothy obliged an answer without missing a beat. "I decided I wanna be just like you, Raffle," he said simply. "Got my fingers taped, and I can even eat and write like that. It's not too hard. I go through a whole lotta tape though. And, like, ummmm, when I knew you got in trouble and had to wear a blindfold-thingy, I decided I wanted one. It looked cool."

"Timothy..."

"I just took an old pillow case and cut a long strip. Then tied it on. But I couldn't see, and I still had my reading lessons. So, I cut holes to see out of. So... it's not really a blindfold, Raffle. It's more of a-"

"Mask," Raphael finished, lips forming a taut line. He slowly drew his hand away from the child and pressed it to his own head in a vain attempt to ease an oncoming headache. "Ya don't wanna be like me, kid."

"Yeah-huh," young Timothy argued with a sudden burst of determination and unwavering confidence. "You do a lot of good things. And you never quit on anything. You're big and strong, and really, super, amazingly cool. And, when I grow up to be mutant ninja, we can both save the city together. Won't that be cool?"

Squinting his eyes shut tight beneath the fabric, Raph felt his chest tighten, and he could almost visualize his heart breaking a little.

He knelt down in front of the child and reached out, drawing Timothy into his arms and pulling him close, hugging him.

Then...

"Kid, I need ya ta listen, and listen good. Ya don't wanna be like me. You only got half the story, and the rest of it is more like a horror-themed graphic novel. You've got this family-oriented bullshit half-tale, and it's muddling yer thoughts. Ya don't need that." Pulling the kid away from him, Raphael brought his hands up behind Timothy's head, finding the knot of the homemade mask and tugging it loose. Dropping the fabric, he lightly traced his fingers around the child's eyes. "I fuck up a lot. Hell, I say a lot of bad words, even when I'm censoring myself. I've hurt people... and I ain't proud of it. But you, Timmy- you've got your whole life ahead of ya. You can go to school. Get smart. Get a job and a family. And when you get a kid of yer own, you-"

"I'm gonna be a ninja like you, Raffle. Maybe even a mutant-ninja! And, if ya stop trying to bully me out of it, I'll show you to the bathroom."

...

* * *

_[Leo]_

Leonardo held his swords, unwilling to sheath them in the presence of a pending foe. He could barely feel the weighted pommels in his grip due to the chill that seemed to permeate his entire body, but muscle memory guided him into a perfect stance.

"Your mask is blue," spoke the black clad figure that stood several feet away, both hands held up to display their lack of weaponry. "Blue mask, means you're Leonardo."

Leo narrowed his eyes and gave a curt nod; there was no need to deny what so many already knew, but he was in no mood to indulge an enemy with conversation. He kept silent, observational, ready to strike if necessary.

"Your brother-"

"What of my brother?" the turtle cut in hastily, his stoic temperament demolished by circumstance.

"He died."

The moment the the grim statement had left the human's mouth, an attack was launched. In the blink of an eye, Leo had the human pinned beneath his body and the blade of a katana pressed against the soft delicate flesh of a throat.


	55. Ch 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

**CH 54**

* * *

[Leo]

The weather had calmed, but the night air was still colder than a witch's tit.

Yet, Leonardo couldn't focus on the icy chill; he could barely focus on breathing. His mind seemed to empty itself as he stared down at the young man pinned beneath his own reptilian body. He pressured the blade of his katana, searing it into the column of flesh, drawing a thin line of blood.

Testing the waters, so to speak.

"You have one chance," he said, voice cold, almost menacing, foreign to his on ear slits, "to amend your claim. I value my brothers above my honor, and I will not hesitate to-"

"He died." The simple statement. Grim, and flat. Uncaring.

Leo took a moment to gauge the human's sincerity. Finding no fault of dishonesty in the horrific claim, he drew in a breath, steeled his nerves, and bore down his blade.

* * *

...

[Raph]

It felt like forever before those two days came to an end and Raphael's punishment was lifted.

Strangely enough, he had been guided by a stranger. A new voice, strong- yet soft. Firm, and undeniably... feminine. And the aroma that accompanied this stranger was almost non-existent with an echo of sakura blossom and copper.

Raphael paid close attention to that alluring combination of scents as he followed behind the young woman who beckoned him, directing him towards the elevator.

He noted her steps, gauged the length and speed of her stride and matched her step for step, playing it by ear.

From one hall to the next, the young woman sped up, moving faster, and the turtle mimicked. From hall to hall, this continued on: a childish game that bore no name.

She darted left, faster.

He followed, never more than a few steps behind and often finding himself directly by her side, inhaling that sweet scent that drew his curiosity.

Upon entering the elevator, Raphael stopped- not because the woman had also stopped... but because he knew where he was.

He could smell the earthy smell of the potting soil of the plant that decorated the corner. He could feel the fibers of carpet beneath his toes when he curled them or scuffed his feet.

He heard the doors slide shut.

He felt the shift in gravity as the lift was activated.

And... he could hear the young woman breathe. Soft, steady.

He controlled his own respiration to mimic that as well, almost daring the woman to say or do something- but she did nothing.

She simply called haughtily: "This way," when the elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open.

And again, the turtle followed.

He didn't need to see to know that the atmosphere had changed as himself and the female entered the infamous Throne Room.

Then...

"Kneel," the command came in Shredder's voice, and Raphael obeyed without thought.

He dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

In the presence of his human-master, he felt oddly at peace. His breath didn't even hitch when he heard the sound of a blade sliding from its sheath. Nor when he felt the cool steel brush against the side of his head.

In half a heartbeat's time, the blade had cut the blindfold, and the material fell, freeing the turtle's face from its own brand of oppression.

Even with the cloth removed, Raphael kept his eyes closed out of instinct. Having relinquished his sight for a couple days, opening his eyes almost felt impossible; though he was quite aware of his ability to do so, it somehow seemed unlawful.

"Rise, and open your eyes, Raphael. My son." The words, so firm. The voice, familiar, grounding. A siren's call.

Raphael did as ordered. With no hesitation. Complete authority and credence was given to the man that once haunted his nightmares. In one swift motion, he pulled himself to a standing position, his posture perfect, shoulders squared, chin raised with unwavering confidence. Without a second thought, he peeled his eyelids back, almost surprised by the dim lighting that met him.

Though he was well aware of his location, he almost expected the blinding whiteness of the Infirmary to greet him in a vicious assault of the senses. But that was not the case. Instead, the Throne Room's lights were dim, offering an almost warm glow to the surrounding blackness that reached the far-stretched corners of the room.

The lighting could be considered soothing.

Raph blinked several times as he adjusted to the nuance of sight. He took in the view of his armored master, standing as tall and sharp as ever, sporting a new pair of bladed gauntlets.

Bright, gleaming, polished, and deadly.

Raphael's gaze rested on those blades momentarily, determining the incisiveness.

A quick shift of his amber eyes, and Raph's focus turned to another nuance about his master. A familiar relic, golden and radiant, resting around the human's neck like a pendant.

The Golden Shuriken.

The mutant couldn't help staring at it. He'd almost forgotten about the relic. He'd secured the magick item for his master so long ago...

 _'Was it that long ago?'_ Between then and now, there seemed to be a stretch of eternity.

It was hardly something he openly pondered, for it brought up other memories best left buried. It reminded him of the preparation for the heist. The nervous energy that had him on edge. He remembered the weight of the bladed shoulder armor; the feel of the respirator encasing his beak. He remembered the surge of adrenaline from encountering the land mines. The mutant dog he fought and slayed- and later buried.

He remembered the odd mesh of pride and disgust he found within himself upon completion of obtaining the item.

Ultimately, he'd slaughtered. He'd stolen. He'd rebuked everything he'd ever been taught under the rat's tutelage.

And, while this invoked a number of conflicting emotions, somehow, pride always seemed to overtake the negativity.

Pride always aided him in his quest for repression.

...

Raphael couldn't be sure how long he'd been staring at that mystic relic once his attention had turned to the gleaming golden object, but it was probably too long considering the abruptness of his master's call of: "Focus, Raphael." The human paused for the length of three breaths. Then, "You served your punishment without complaint."

 _'Right, Master Shredda summoned me,'_ Raphael mentally chastised himself before processing what had been said. Shredder's praise came and easily stole the turtle's attention. Adjusting his footing and flexing his fingers to quell a sudden wave of restlessness, he gave repose. "No reason ta complain," Raph said with a cocky tone, his amber eyes locking with his master's jade-colored ones. "The only regret I have, is that I couldn't do anythin' productive fer you or the Foot while I as servin' my punishment."

With his words, Raphael knew he was sucking up. There was little honesty to what he'd just said, but he'd hardly consider it a lie. And he'd delivered the line so carefully, so believably...

Shredder raised a hand and placed it firmly on the mutant's shoulder, showing his praise through the simple action.

And Raphael basked in the feeling. The warmth. The pride.

Yet, for a split second, Raph's focus dwindled; strayed away and honed in on the thought of his former Leader. There was a twinge in his chest that he couldn't decipher, but he pushed the feeling aside to be contemplated at another time. Because, his human-master was right there, demanding his attention.

And Raphael was disrespectfully ignoring the human in favor of sorting through a pile of memories surrounding the reptile called Leonardo.

The memories hurt- not just emotionally. Accompanying the internal grief was a sharp pain in the turtle's head.

Somehow, it seemed important.

Because, for as long as he could remember, despite their differences, he and Leo had been bound together. Not as brothers. Not as comrades. Not spiritually. But, on a more selective path that bordered telepathy.

In the way that twins could allegedly feel one another's pain, Raphael and Leonardo had a unique connection.

It had always been that way. Though, when the subject was breached, Raphael had openly dismissed it, always; likewise, Leonardo had stubbornly claimed to have the same connection with each of his brothers, favoring no one.

It was a contingency that they agreed to disagree on without prompting argument. Yet it was undeniable that some kind of bond was there. Something deep that the emerald-skinned turtle often tried to overshadow and ignore.

In a world where the four turtles only had each other, it was surprisingly easy to feel over crowded, suffocated.

And, with Leo's gain of Leadership and Raphael's gradually growing distance from the others, that bond had weakened. It became buried by years of condescension and jealousy.

In time, despite its niggling existence, the bond was mostly ignored -if not forgotten.

Except in particularly hard times.

On more than a few occasions when Raphael had found himself in over his head, topside and fighting a losing battle, Leo had wordlessly raced out of the Lair, drawn by an internal pull and almost guided to his brother's aid.

Whenever it was questioned how Leo knew to look for Raph, or where to find him, Leo's answer was always a calm and confident: "I'm the Leader; it is my job to know-" but he never really knew. Not truthfully. It was purely instinctive.

As expected, almost justified, Raphael never returned the help with a grateful attitude. Not when Leo used his role as Leader like a crutch. An excuse. Had Leo been more open and less stubborn, perhaps Raph would have done the same.

But, in most cases, when the subject of Leo's aid came to light, Raphael would respond with snark, or simply reply: "I ain't never asked for yer help, Fearless."

And Leo would forgive Raph.

They'd fight and disagree. They'd push each other's buttons. They'd say words they didn't mean and worry about consequences later.

But, that's just what brothers did.

 _'Brothers...'_ the mere thought of the word hurt Raphael. Because he couldn't be sure if he still had brothers. He knew they weren't biologically related, but they were raised together. They lived and trained together. They did everything together.

And then, Raphael left.

While this was nothing new, this time... he stayed away.

At the time, he thought he was doing the right thing. At the time, it made sense. At the time, he was so certain of himself and the path he'd chosen. But, in retrospect, he had to wonder if he wasn't being just a tad bit selfish. Petulant. Ignorant. And downright stupid.

Because, he'd done so many things that could never be un-done. He'd weaved himself into a web and gotten trapped. Willingly.

He'd stepped into this life through some imaginary portal, and he'd tried to find happiness. He'd searched for acceptance among an enemy. He'd forsaken the only family he ever knew...

And, part of him had to wonder, if his interlude with Shredder was something genuine and just, or if it was merely an attempt at gaining the praise he'd been denied for so long.

Greed for an starving ego.

A chance to be the golden boy, for once. A chance to be like his big brother. Just for a while, a moment in the spotlight.

If so, was it really _that_ bad? For him to want a little appreciation? A little piece of fame in a world that refused his existence?

* * *

...

_[Leo]_

The turtle grit his teeth and shut his eyes tightly in despair. His hands futilely scooped at the pooling red liquid and splashed it over the gaping wound he'd created, trying to return the life-essence to the source... as if the act would put this Humpty Dumpty together again.

Deep down, he knew it was impossible.

Deep down, he knew what he'd done.

Deep down, he felt something inside break.


End file.
